paid books – Page 3 – Mansploitation

The Chav

Nigel’s new flatmate turns out to be a trashy chav, and Nigel’s not sure how to take it! Luckily he’s a handsome, muscle-bound chav with meat to spare, and Nigel’s gonna have to take it whether he wants it or not!

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Nigel became more and more nervous as he settled into the new flat in the Toppenlad Housing Estate. He had been thinking, “oh, it’s not a big deal, I just need a place to live, it’s not a marriage, it’s just a flat”. He didn’t sign a long-term lease, so what did it matter if he didn’t like the cupboard doors? The wallpaper in the toilet was disgusting, but that was hardly worth complaining about, was it?
Now that he was in though, these concerns seemed increasingly important. Could he live with that creepy wallpaper? It looked like a bunch of werewolves who were unaccountably also Italian waiters, watching him sit on the commode. It wasn’t even a bathroom-wallpaper, it was clearly intended for kitchens.
The flat wasn’t a dump… But it was hardly nice, either. Nigel couldn’t put a cosy spin on it. It was in a shitty housing estate. The neighbours were all well chavvy. The furniture was shit. The buzzer was broken, and the way that was explained to him suggested that Nigel should not expect it to ever be fixed. The hot water was inconsistent, one wall was perpetually sodden, the windows were drafty and hadn’t been cleaned in years.
But Nigel couldn’t afford anything more. He was straight-up skint these days. That was the main reason he didn’t move out. There was a grace period in the lease, after all, he could have changed his mind.
Another reason was that his flatmate seemed to be a sterling bloke. He was working class for sure, not that Nigel was classist. The flatmate was tall and broad-jawed, almost noble-looking in a way, if you ignored the tracksuit and the trainers. But he wasn’t a chav at all.
Or at least, he wasn’t a chav at that time. When Nigel talked to him before moving in, he spoke with a definite Essexer accent, but he wasn’t a chav. He had dressed well, like he had an actual job, and even tucked his shirt in. He wore nice trousers. He had shaved that morning, his hair was clean.
That lasted until the first evening. At first, Nigel thought that his flatmate — Connor Muttright — was affecting a chavvy accent as a joke. Nigel even joined in for fun.
It wasn’t until Nigel was about ready for bed and he saw hoodied-up Connor outside with his friends drinking lager from brown paper bags that Nigel realised he had always been a chav. He was no better than any of the other neighbors. He was a wideboy, a yobbo, capable of passing as a normal Englishman for as much time as it took to get Nigel to move in. Now it made sense — Connor had said finding a flatmate was hard. The last person to move in didn’t stick around. That last person must have realised his flatmate was a chav and departed. Connor tricked Nigel into accepting the room by pretending he was a respectable man.
Now he was out there hooting at passersby, whilst Nigel tried to sleep in his new bed. Sleep was hard to come by that night.
Dressed in his Burberry hoodie, Connor returned to the flat a little after midnight, when Nigel was still tossing and turning. Even sober, Connor rampaged like a drunken chav, bumping into furniture and laughing so hard Nigel wondered if he brought a hyena home with him. Finally there was a period of silence, just a few seconds long before it was interrupted by a torrent of coughing.
That was followed by some feminine moans. Had he brought a girl here? No, Nigel realised, the sound was flat, electronic, synthesized. It was porn. He was watching porn, quite possibly on Nigel’s computer. Nigel considered getting up to complain.
But before he could decide whether or not to do that, the door to his room crept open. Connor stood there in the doorway smoking a roll-up — or was it cannabis? It might have been. Nigel didn’t know, it didn’t smell like the tobaco he was familiar with. Nigel’s heart raced — Connor thought he was asleep, and had come in here to watch him slumber? What did he intend to do? This didn’t feel safe. The porn could still be heard through the cheap computer speakers attached to Nigel’s laptop out in the other room.
“Oi,” Connor said, a few times until Nigel lifted his head, pretending to be groggy. Connor’s voice was unnaturally baritone, harsh, syllabic, slightly slurred from lager. “Oi. Orite? Oi!” Connor smiled and sat on the edge of the bed. He was tautly muscled, in a too-small vest that his body was ready to bust out of. His musculature looked painful, like his strength might give up and leave his frame anytime. He sat and took a deep breath, weary from drink. “It’s good you moved in, innit? You crazy baa-sted. Nigel. Niiiii-gel.” That made him laugh, and the sound of his own laughter made it turn into a coarse guffaw, like he thought he was laughing with some other person in the room.
“Uh-huh.” Nigel was too nervous to be offended.
“You is pretty little,” he said. One of his hands gripped Nigel’s arm and squeezed as though searching for biceps. Nigel was a small man, not weak for his size, but trim, slim, not muscled like Connor. Connor’s hands were rough like tarmac. He scoffed. “You should bulk up wiff me and me crew.”
“Oh. Uh… Okay,” Nigel said.
“You got a slag?”
“Not… really.” Nigel didn’t want to explain that he was single by choice, and if he were to date, he would not date a slag. He was waiting to be set up with a proper woman, not a slag, not a chavette. Nigel’s tone communicated, however, that his situation was complicated, that he had a woman who was something less than a girlfriend but more than a female friend. That was not what Nigel intended to convey, but he sensed that that was how Connor took it.
“Hmmm… Bring ‘er ova some’ime,” Connor said.
“I don’t, uh…” Nigel’s voice trailed off because Connor’s heavy hand rested on his shoulder, and Nigel couldn’t tell if Connor was even aware it was there. Nigel wished he was the confident, confrontational kind of man who would tell Connor off.
“I could use a slag, Nigel,” he said. He placed one of his hands on Nigel’s back. He had big hands, heavy and callused so they scratched as he dragged them along the surface of Nigel’s smooth back.
“Oh yeah.”
“You wanna be me mate, innit?”
“Yeah,” Nigel said. That was not exactly true. Nigel had no desire for a chav as a mate, but he certainly didn’t want one as an enemy either. For now, it was best to go along to get along.
“Good, mate,” Connor said. “I think you’ll be a good flatmate.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You know about that tradition we got ’round here, innit? On this estate, on your first night in, you give in.”
“What the bloody hell does that mean?” Nigel didn’t normally curse, but he was both fed up and tired, and he wanted to seem less stuck-up to Connor.
Connor smiled, a cruel mischievous smile that suggested he was making all this up. “I’ll show you,” he said. “Your first night ‘ere, you must… be me bottom. You know… take some dick. Get me off.”
A long, awkward silence filled Nigel’s bedroom. At first he thought he had misheard Connor, then he caught the unmistakeable look on Connor’s face in the dim light that spilled in from the hallway. It was clear he was serious. He truly wanted Nigel to jerk him off, maybe more than that.
And Nigel did want to do it. As a fervent admirer of the male form, he enjoyed Connor’s musculature and the handsome sturdiness of his face. But he found his chavviness and his ill-bred manners offputting.
Nevertheless… The heat emanating from Connor’s powerful body was alluring, and Nigel found his hand touching Connor’s well-muscled back whether he wanted to or not.
“What, really?”
“Yes, really,” Connor said. He took off his flat cap and began to undress. His body swayed as if he was on a boat, but Connor didn’t seem to notice that. He almost fell off the bed when he lifted his vest off over his head.
Nigel gulped nervously. Was this really normal in this estate? Was it a trick? He didn’t know much about chavs beyond what he saw on old episodes of The Jeremy Kyle Show. This didn’t seem like the kind of things the Jeremy Kyle chavs would do, but then, if they did do this — cornholing, jerking off, ramrodding — they would hardly talk about it on Jeremy Kyle.
In any case, Nigel was hardly in a position to lecture Connor about proper chav behavior.
Soon enough, Connor’s muscled body was bare, his trackpants crumpled up on the floor. His tattooed chest rippled, and he licked his teeth as he stood up next to the bed. He let out a lager-scented belch, which made him laugh and that in turn made his cock jiggle. That cock was thick and long, already half-hard because he had started watching porn before coming in Nigel’s room and some of his erection from then remained.
“Connor-?”
“Sssh…” Connor’s hands gripped Nigel’s head and kneaded the skin of his face as though trying to rearrange his features.
Connor’s dick srayed left and right above his head. Nigel was still laying there, in the same position as when he had been pretending to sleep. Now it was all happening so fast. He sat up, moving away from the edge of the bed so he didn’t get bonked on the forehead by Connor’s cock.
“Open up, mate, lemme in there,” Connor said. He pulled his gold chains around backwards, so they were on his back. His dick was thick and gleamed with moisture, either precum or sweat or maybe a bit of both. The smell of unwashed ballsweat filled the air.
Connor hopped up onto the bed and straddled Nigel’s chest with his massive thighs. His balls touched Nigel’s skin, and Nigel gasped. His mouth opened, Connor’s cock sliding right in.
The taste of dickmeat exploded in Nigel’s mouth, all salty and warm, a little grimy, with the sourwater flavour of Special Brew coating it as though Connor had spilled it on himself, despite an ASVO telling him he can’t drink. He was so shocked by what was happening that he just accepted it. Connor’s fat cock pushed into Nigel’s throat, invading his gullet like a fist. Nigel choked and opened as wide as he could.
“Bloody hell, fuck yeah, mate…”
The taste was musky and salty, like he had got precummy when he watching porn and never wiped off — or maybe he’d been with a slag earlier and never cleaned afterwards. In any case, it was foul like an disused shower, and it made Nigel’s stomach churn. Despite the rancidity of the taste, it was alluring too, and Nigel found himself fighting back less and less with every passing moment.
Soon enough, Connor’s member was rock-hard and throbbing. It seemed firmer than Nigel’s ever got, and it was veiny, barbaric, heavier than it looked and thicker than seemed possible. Surely no woman could or would take that in her… no woman would take that in her anywhere.
“Hmmm, mate…” Connor might have attempted to say something more, but that was the only intelligible part to Nigel.
When the taste of precum flooded Nigel, Connor moaned out loud. He even moaned with a chavvy accent, like he was half-laughing at Nigel and half-aroused, with just a touch of angry and aggressive at the same time. His moan was equally one of good-natured humor, a threat of violence and a cry of passion all at once. His dick throbbed all the way down Nigel’s throat, pushing deeper and deeper with every thrust of his body.
His muscles flexed above Nigel’s body. Nigel felt small and weak. He always felt that way, more or less, because he was skinny by nature, even if he was rather athletic as well. He seemed tiny in comparison to Connor, whose body was somehow scrawny yet bulging with powerful muscles. Cheap-looking tattoos decorated his pecs and biceps, but the only one Nigel could make out was a string of barb wire that ran up and down both arms and his torso. A few bits of bloody flesh were tattooed attached to the barbs.
“Taste good, innit bruv?” Connor asked with mocking sincerity, like he would have preferred that Nigel hated it.
But Nigel had to admit he was right, it did taste good, and the more Nigel tasted, the more he wanted to savour the flavour forever. It tasted sweet and sour, with a powerful flavour that made Nigel swoon with desire.
Connor didn’t pull his dick out, so Nigel couldn’t have answered even if he wanted to, which he didn’t. Connor muttered in his indecipherable chavspeak as his balls slapped against Nigel’s chin.
His dick was veiny, the shaft thick and throbbing. The precum flowed so freely down Nigel’s throat that Nigel wondered if it was normal. His own dick didn’t seem to leak that much precum, but he had never measured it, and it was hard to tell what was precum and what was his own spit.
“Hey, mate… flatmate,” Connor said as he pulled out and thwacked his dick against Nigel’s face. “I’m a bloody nice flatmate, so I’m going to go ram you just like you like it.” He pulled out a jar of lube and motioned for Nigel to roll over. “Lemme see that beautiful arse of yours, innit. You ever been rammed in there? Huh? You ever do some porridge, mate?”
“No…” Nigel said, his voice tremulous. Despite his fear, he did roll over. His arse gleamed in the darkness of his ill-lit room. “I’m, uh… I’ve been rammed, yeah.” He cleared his throat. He didn’t usually admit that even to close friends, and he would never have said so to a thug like Connor if he wasn’t overwhelmed by the passion of the moment.
He grappled Nigel by the hair and lifted his face up. Pain erupted in Nigel’s skull and scalp. Connor forced him to turn his head so they could look each other in the eye. Connor hocked up a loogie as though he was going to spit it in Nigel’s mouth, but then he just spat in the bin next to the bed. “You think I’m a tosser, mate?”
“No… I swear, I don’t,” Nigel said.
“Good. Cuz I will bang you out, mate. I’ll bang you out bloody good,” he said, accentuating that last word, which he pronounced in his chavvy way: guuuud. He rammed his pinkie finger into Nigel’s arse, which sent a bolt of pain up Nigel’s spine, whilst also making his dick twitch with anticipation. Nigel yelped and lifted his arse but submitted to the brief fingering.
Then Connor laid himself down on top of Nigel, who arched his back as soon as he felt that thick cock pressing between his asscheeks. Nigel was acting on instinct now, because a part of him wanted to try this more than he ever wanted anything. It was all he could think about now, and Nigel craved every centimeter of that chavvy manhood inside him.
Nigel gulped and bit his lip. A sharp biting pain began in his backside. Nigel first thought that was pretty tolerable, but then it was followed by a wave of intense pressure. It felt like his arse was ripping in two, and he liked it.
“I’m gonnuh ram you bloody righ’, mate…” Connor said softly, directly into Nigel’s ear. That made Nigel shudder in anticipation, and Connor chuckled. The more this went on, the drunker he sounded and the chavvier was his accent, his tongue seemingly growing too big for his mouth. His breath condensed on Nigel’s nape.
Nigel grunted and bucked, escaping from Connor’s cock — a success he instantly regretted, as the pain had come with a burgeoning pleasure that he now missed. He stopped fighting back so Connor could hold onto his hips tight, keeping him in position. His perky asscheeks jiggled as Connor got the knob lined up again with his hole.
Depsite the pain, Nigel was going to take this entire dick, and he had a feeling he was going to do so again every night.
The more he got rammed, the more sure he was that staying in the flat had been the right decision, Nigel cried out with desire, moaning louder with each thrust of Connor’s hips. Connor kept adding more lube from a tube he must have brought in with him — you know he dates slags if he needs to buy his own lube in an extra-value size. The lube made it easier and easier to take every bit of his massive cockshaft, and besides that, Nigel could feel a burning pit of pleasure that grew steadily stronger from deep within him.
“Oi!”
Nigel stuck his head up. Was Connor talking to him? It sounded like he wasn’t, but there was no one else here, was there? When Nigel tried to turn his head all the way around, the movement caused a surge of pain deep within him. He got far enough to see that Connor had picked up his mobile and either answered it or called someone.
“Yeah, mate. He say what?” Connor stopped moving for a moment. He sounded angry. “We is gonna smack him out, mate. Innit, right? Yeah!”
Then he stopped talking for an extended period. It sounded like he was waiting. He resumed plowing Nigel so hard and so powerfully that Nigel had to bite his lip to avoid crying out with desire again.
The pleasure grew more and more intense, and Nigel had trouble avoiding moaning so loud that whomever Connor spoke to on the phone would hear. Nigel wasn’t even aware that his own cock was rock-hard, throbbing though no one had touched it, and the awe-striking intensity of the sensations within meant Nigel couldn’t bear to move. He didn’t notice the precum leaking out the tip of his knob and soaking the brand-new sheets of his bed.
“Yeah. I’m fuckin’ this bitch, mate. She’s quiet. She’s shy. Don’t wanna talk to you, innit, mate,” Connor said. He smacked Nigel’s arse, which made Nigel let out a high-pitched yelp. It apparently sounded feminine enough to pass as a girl for the person on the other end of the line, and Connor chuckled at the reaction he got. He smacked Nigel’s arse again and again. “Yeah, it’s jigglin’ like a fuckin’ bowl of jelly, innit!”
Connor began grinding his dick as he talked on the phone, moving his hips in circles as though trying to touch every part of Nigel’s insides. He laughed cruelly like he thought he was torturing Nigel and ripping him up inside, but in fact, Nigel loved every moment of it. It was intense enough that he had to lay his head down, and he let out a long, low squeal, which sounded pained enough that Connor apparently didn’t notice that Nigel was enjoying himself.
“Nah, that’s the telly, innit. I’m gonna hang up now, mate. I’m arse-deep in this bitch, and I’m done listenin’ to you. We got a plan, right? You meet me at the corner in twenn’y, and we go beat that muvvahfucka down to the ground!” He paused. “Yeah. Peace.” Then he hung up his cell phone and threw it on the bed next to Nigel. “Sorry about that, mate. Lemme get back to rammin’ you the way you deserve.”
Nigel wanted to tell him to keep going, that he wasn’t upset or scared, that he wanted it to continue forever. But it felt too good to say anything.
Outside the apartment, shouts of oi! erupted as some other crew of chavs met up. Connor leaned over to the bedroom window and opened it without taking his dick out of Nigel.
“Oi! You fuckin’ wankuhs shut up out there!”
“Come out here and make us, bloody pissuh!” One of the other chavs called out from the street.
Connor snarled and sneered. He spat out the window, but he shut it without any further dramatics, even as the chavs outside continued to yell taunts and jeers. Nigel shuddered as he realised this neighborhood was getting chavvier and chavvier by the minute — it had seemed respectable during the day, but with the darkness of dusk, he now realised he had made a mistake. He would have never moved in here if had come by at night.
But it was hard to think about that right now, with his arse chock-full of chavvy cock-meat. He gasped as pre-orgasmic pleasure washed over him, accompanied by Connor’s harsh grunting. Even though Nigel’s dick was untouched, Nigel felt an incredible sensation rocketing through him, like Connor had flicked a switch inside him. Waves of bliss rocked his tender frame.
“Gonna fill you up now, mate… Be a good little flatmate and take it. Don’t move till I’m done,” Connor said, repeating himself a few times, his words getting gradually slower and lower as he neared his own orgasm. “Don’t move, don’t move, mate…”
Finally Nigel felt Connor’s broad muscles rippling as he laid down on Nigel’s back. He was perfectly still there for a moment, his massive, heavy body bearing down on Nigel, who struggled to breathe both from the weight and from the pain and pleasure that roiled within his arse.
Then, just as the first drops of cum sprayed into Nigel, Connor’s hands gripped Nigel’s cock. He gave Nigel one long, slow stroke from root to tip, and he kissed Nigel on the side of the cheek.
“Reacharound, innit? Cuz you is my flatmate, and I treat you orite.”
For some reason, that was enough to send Nigel over the edge, just a bare touch from Connor’s hands wrapped around his cock. He barely noticed the cum pumping into his arse because Nigel had his own sudden, overwhelming orgasm.
He grunted and groaned, just as Connor made a torrent of loud rutting sounds. His utterances were cruder, mean, almost insulting even though they were not real words. Somehow, Nigel knew what he meant. But Nigel was overcome by passion in his own dick, which sprayed cum all over his mattress. The orgasm was almost painful it was so exquisite, so sudden, he had been humping the bed just out of pure instinct as Connor slammed his dick inside him. Nigel’s mind was blinded by the agony in his pained asshole.
At last it was all over. One final jet of cum flew from Nigel’s rod at the same time as a cumwad erupted in his ass, and Connor’s long, chest-rattled groan signaled his orgasm was finished. Nigel moaned and squirmed on the bed as he felt every muscle in Connor’s body go limp atop him. Nigel bit the pillow beneath his face.
“Ah, that was pretty good, mate,” Connor said. “Gonna teach you to be a chav. How do you think about that?”
Nigel was too dazed to think about his words, his pain was still intense because Connor’s cock was still half-hard inside him. He shrugged. “Okay.”
“Can you say oi?”
“Oi.”
“Nah. Say it with emphasis, with balls. Say it like you mean it, bruv.”
“Oi.”
“No.”
“Oi!”
“Closer. Say it a couple times.”
“Oi! Oi! Oi!”
“Yeah! There you go,” Connor said. He laughed right into Nigel’s ear, then pulled his now-limp cock out. Nigel shuddered as intense relief flooded his body. He felt like he could think now for the first time since Connor had come into his room. Connor patted Nigel’s bare arse. “Thanks,” he said. “You’re a good flatmate. I’m gonnuh like sharing this place with you very much.”
“Yeah,” Nigel said with a grin. “Me too. I’m glad I moved in here… bruv.”
He watched Connor get up and put his clothes on to go meet his friends. They were going to go beat someone up, Nigel realised with a nervous shudder. Connor put on his trackpants and wifebeater. He walked out without another word.

Reacharound From a Fat Jock

Bart is glad to service the more heavyset athletes at GHU, especially the legendary linebacker Gravy! He’s big, he’s thick, he’s got massive meat, and he knows how to use it! Can Bart and Gravy satisfy each other’s needs?

Read it now as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Gravy had said before, in front of his team, that he didn’t have anal sex with women because it was unbiblical. He truly believed that — Gravy was a preacher’s son, so he wasn’t about to argue with the Bible. Anal sex was wrong, as was all premarital sex. That didn’t stop Gravy from wanting it. He told his teammates that he had religious objections to cover up the fact that he couldn’t get sex anyway, not even normal sex and definitely not anal sex.
But Jimmy and Raython and them, Tuck, George, even Easy, they all had girlfriends, they all banged them all the time, and they had “sluts on the side” too. Not Gravy. The others bragged about fucking their sluts in the ass, and Gravy nodded along as though he did the same thing.
The one time he got this ex-girlfriend of his to give up the ass, it ended in failure. Davy “Gravyboat” Mitchell had a giant dick. Thirteen inches, a hefty thirteen, as thick as a coke can and then some. She took one look at it and noped right out. She said she’d give him a handjob, but then she didn’t.
But Gravy had always found it best to lean into that kind of thing — if he couldn’t talk girls into doing anal, he might as well claim he didn’t wanna do it anyway. So he’d told his teammates he wouldn’t do anal sex for religious reasons, and they accepted that, or at least they didn’t care enough to press him on it.
“Alright, freshmen and Gravyboat, get outta here, you can shower in the visiting-team locker room,” Jimmy called out as they all chanted and clapped after the last pre-tournament game. He motioned towards the door that led to the other locker room, where the freshmen were already heading.
Today the GHU Titans had finally won, made it to the state championships. Soon they might well be the champion football team in the whole state. That’s why the whole team was celebrating.
Gravy swaggered to his feet. The cheerleaders were already streaming into the locker room, giggling and blushing. Gravy tried to look nonchalant, like he was a part of this, even though he knew he wasn’t, and everyone else in the locker room must have known the same thing, if they gave it any thought.
The cheerleaders had promised to give up the butt. That was why they were being secretive, they didn’t want everyone to know. They said they would let the seniors gangbang their ass, possibly in a big orgy thing, or maybe they’d pair off, Gravy didn’t know the details. The girls said they would only do the seniors (since the freshmen weren’t playing anyway) and they excluded a handful of weirdos, skinny kickers and, of course, Gravy, both because he was too big in general and because his cock was too big for anal sex (or so Gravy assumed was the reason, since no one told him about any of this, he had had to surmise it).
That was why he was told to shower with the freshmen.
“I got that older… lady. She’s probably waiting for me, at her house, which she has a mortgage on, she’s current on payments,” Gravy said as he walked out. He babbled, but he couldn’t stop even when he realized nobody was paying attention.
He had been seen talking to a professor, an attractive older lady. He tried to flirt with her, but she shot him down, said that she didn’t date students, that she wasn’t into him, and she didn’t say that he was a big-boy freak with too many glands and armpits that smell like horse stables, but that was implied. Nevertheless, Gravy’s teammates saw him, assumed he was messing around with her on the downlow because she was older, and Gravy hadn’t corrected them. Now he tried to remind them of that, hoping they would think he was leaving to go fuck his own woman, not because the cheerleaders had rejected him.
“She’s hot for an old woman. She really loves fucking me. You know how old ladies are. Or maybe you guys don’t.”
His body was still sweaty because he hadn’t showered — the cheerleaders wanted to shower with the players, so no one had showered yet — and he tried to sound confident. The players were kissing the cheerleaders, taking their clothes off, groping their perky young breasts. They were just going right into it, damn, Gravy wasn’t…
Gravy had never done anything that just got right into the swing of things, no nervous fumbling, no awkward pauses, they didn’t even say hi first. Gravy backed out the door, eyes to drawn to the cheerleaders and their tits and asses…
“She’s not that old. She’s divorced. She has a son slightly older than me,” Gravy said. “So it’s awkward. It’s…”
“Cool, thanks, Gravy! Leave the lights on!”
“Yeah, Gravy, leave the lights on when you leave with your cheerleader!”
No one listened. No one had even noticed that Gravy did not have a cheerleader. Nobody had listened to Gravy’s words. He could have said he was off to fuck Clara Barton in her dirty butthole, and they’d have just said ‘kay, see ya, Gravy. Those cheerleaders had such perky plump tits that it was impossible to get the football players to pay attention to anything else. Gravy’s dick was stiffening even as he felt depressed and dejected.
He had overthought that. Nobody noticed he wasn’t in the gangbang. They just assumed he was banging some other cheerleader, like there was a whole bunch more cheerleaders around the corner that they hadn’t met yet. Gravy didn’t need to impress them, because they weren’t paying enough attention to him to notice how unimpressive he was.
Their feminine giggles filled the air, and Gravy could sense the sex dwindling behind him as he walked farther and farther away. The atmosphere got sexier in there after he left. He tried not to be bitter about it. His dick was half-hard. He wanted to fuck; he wanted to demolish a chick’s tight asshole; he wanted to fill her guts with his seed.
Gravy showered and changed into the civilian clothes he carried with him from the other locker room. The freshmen were mostly done showering by the time he got there, so he was alone that whole time. He’d learned his lesson, so he didn’t bother explaining to the freshmen why he wasn’t with the others.
Maybe he’d learned the wrong lesson, because he did sense the freshmen snickering. They knew he wasn’t invited to gangbang with the other football players because the cheerleaders didn’t want the fat jock. Maybe he should have given them an excuse. Or maybe that would have just made him look defensive.
The freshmen pointed and laughed at his big dick too. Gravy ignored that. He headed out of there as soon as he got his clothes on.
He didn’t get very far, however, before running into Bart Dazzle, the physical therapist for the university’s athletic department. He was short, neat-mannered man, slim and flamboyant in his way, kind of offputting at first, cuz Gravy didn’t get the artistic, theater-kid kind of personality. But Bart had grown on him, and he gave great massages.
“Is something wrong?” Bart asked when he saw Gravy. They were just passing the door to the locker room, inside which all of Gravy’s friends were gangbanging the cheerleading squad, and the sounds of that were plainly audible. There was no doubting what it was.
Though Gravy hadn’t intended to tell anyone what happened, he did, just because the words poured out of him. Once he started, he couldn’t stop unil he had told the whole story. He sat on a bench, and Bart rubbed his shoulders the whole time. He had smell, gentle hands but a firm touch, and he rubbed the tension out of Gravy’s shoulders.
“You poor baby, are those cheerleaders being bitches? Don’t worry, at least one of ‘em has chlamydia, your teammates are all going to be on antibiotics next week. They’ll recover before the tournament, but they’ll have learned a valuable lesson,” Bart said and shrugged.
“Oh. How’d you know that?”
Bart shrugged. “I know those cheerleaders. They’re like that. I have access to their medical records.”
“Should we… stop them?”
“Chlamydia’s fully curable. It’s no big deal,” Bart said.
“Oh.”
“That woman you were talking to, the professor-“
“That old lady?”
“She’s thirty-one, Gravy. That’s not exactly old. But yeah, her. She’s totally into you, you know. She was serious about not dating students, that’s a rule she follows strictly. She could be fired. But you’re graduating soon. Call her. She likes big boys,” Bart said. He held up a piece of paper. “This is her phone number.” He smiled flirtatiously as he tucked it into Gravy’s jeans pocket. His hand plunged deeper into the pocket than was necessary, and he handled Gravy’s cock and balls through the fabric. He smiled.
“Why are you giving me that?”
“Because I like you, and I like her,” Bart said, still holding onto Gravy’s cock through his pocket. He led him down the corridor.
“Oh. Where are you taking me?” Gravy always turned into a robot when someone touched his cock like that. He got touched affectionately so rarely it was nice when it happened, and he didn’t want to say anything or move in a way that might make it stop. He was stiff, leaning back a little to let Bart have easy access to his crotch.
He followed Bart down a corridor in the athletic department. He cleared his throat and asked again, his deep voice echoing and making Bart shiver with desire. “Where are we going, man?”
“Sssh… Ass is ass, Gravy, especially in the dark. I’m taking you somewhere dark enough to… well, dark enough to do whatever you want.”
“I’m not… I’m not gonna cornhole you,” Gravy said. Bart’s massages usually had a handjob component. That was the best part of his massages, and he knew perfectly well Bart wanted to get cornholed by him. He wanted to ride that massive cock.
But Gravyboat didn’t do that kind of thing. That was dirty. He wasn’t a hobo or an oilman or a roughneck, he wasn’t a ramrod.
Bart stopped in front of a closet door. He opened it and dragged Gravy in. It was a large walk-in closet, usually full of soccer equipment thought it was empty now because all of the equipment was on the north field. The soccer team had just begun practice. The women’s soccer team at GHU was full of thick girls who might date him, he hoped, so he kept going to games.
It was a dumbass sport though, boring as math. You could tell it was an old game, they invented it before anything but kicking had been invented.
Though it was a big closet, Gravy had to stoop to get in past the tight doorway, and he was crammed in there. Bart’s body bumped up against him as they both struggled to fit in. When the door slammed shut behind him, it was pitch-black in here.
Gravy’s intense body odor filled the air. It wasn’t a bad scent, it was mostly cheap deodorant, which he used copious amounts of because he was sensitive to people (mostly women) constantly telling him he was sweaty. He didn’t even raise his arms in class because people acted like his armpits smelled really bad, even when he knew they didn’t — people just made that sort of assumption about big guys like him. If he defended himself, he would just sound defensive, like he might as well admit it was true that he smelled bad.
“Man… I won’t stick you in the ass.” Gravy’s deep voice gurgled like he knew he wasn’t going to follow through on that rule. “I don’t do that.”
“I know, and I think it’s wrong to lie, I don’t approve of that,” Bart said. His voice sounded even more feminine in the dark. He stroked Gravy’s dick, which began to twitch and firm up. “But I’m not mad. I know you had to lie to-“
“I wasn’t lying.”
“Oh, so this isn’t your dick about to ram into my asshole?” Bart asked with a wry giggle. “Is it some phantom’s cock?” His pants were down now, and he rubbed his smooth ass against Gravy’s bulging crotch. Gravy let out an involuntary moan. His cock was hard now, and it was painfully tight in that jockstrap. He wished they made bigger jockstraps.
“I mean… I ain’t, y’know…” Gravy blushed. “I don’t do that. I ain’t s’posed to even jack off at all. My dad’s a preacher. It’s in the Bible.”
Bart leaned closer to Gravy and whispered, “It’s not in the Bible.”
“Well, my daddy says it ain’t right,” Gravy said. He blushed. “But, uh, I already did done mess with some girls in the past. I got sin in my heart. God forgives. I just don’t know what to do.”
“Oh hush up, I’m not letting you walk around with a hardon like that,” Bart said.
“You can just stroke me off. Put’cha mouth on it,” Gravy said. He looked down at his feet, and a grunt escaped from his throat. He watched his dick throb through his clothes as it caressed Bart’s smooth ass, sending a shiver of desire up Gravy’s spine. He had never had a girl play with his dick like this, like she really wanted to make him feel good. Bart squeezed his shaft, teasing it, making him so hard he could burst. Gravy sucked in his breath, hoping he didn’t cum too quickly.
And just like that, Gravy had changed his mind: He was definitely going to go through with it. He was gonna cornhole Bart.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” Gravy said. “Lemme put it in your butt.”
“I will. In due time,” Bart said. He smirked and looked up. His fingers slipped under Gravy’s shirt and tweaked his nipples, making those mountainous pecs flex over and over.
“Huh.” Gravy grunted, and his massive belly rippled.
“You can always leave, Gravy, this door’s not locked; there’s not even a lock on it. You can masturbate. Your dormmates are gone for the night. You can go sit in front of your computer and pound your meat all night long, if that’s what you want to do. You can make sweet love to your own hand until dawn.”
Gravy murmured. He couldn’t think about anything else but that tight asshole rubbing over his crotch. Bart’s voice sounded so feminine that Gravy could nearly forget that there was no girl here; he didn’t understand why or how Bart would know what was going to happen in the future — his roommate was visiting his parents this week, so his return time was not predictable — but he was too aroused to think too much about it. He heard actual girls laugh out in the hall as they walked by. That made him choke and cough and his hands fumbled with his belt, as he was reminded of where his teammates were.
Without him.
His pants slid down to his ankles, and Gravy sighed as his dick slipped into Bart’s asscheeks. He had never felt anything like it.
At first his cock just flopped between Bart’s cheeks. Even that was enough to make him moan with desire. He humped his hips back and forth, delighting in the shockingly moist feel of Bart’s tight asshole, ready and waiting, beckoning for him to enter it.
“You ready, big boy?” Bart asked. His delicate hands slipped behind his own body, wrapping around Gravy’s shaft and aiming it for his ass.
“Yeah.” Gravy’s deep voice was hesitant, uncertain — not because he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go through with it, just because he was worried he would cum too soon. That would be embarrassing.
On the other hand, it occurred to him that Bart would let him do it again. Bart would probably spend all night with Gravy if he asked, letting Gravy demolish his ass until his roommate showed up tomorrow morning.
Gravy sighed as Bart finally led his dick in. Bart sucked in his breath when it hit his hole, and the hard-as-iron tip slipped into him.
“Goddamn…” Gravy’s eyes opened wide. It was like wearing a warm glove that had been built just for him, or just for the tip of his dick, at least for right now. He grunted. His spine tingled. He bit his lip and gasped.
“Oh…” Bart moaned like a girl. He could sound very much like a girl when he wanted to, especially in the dark and when he was only moaning, not actually speaking. He whimpered like a puppy.
The pain in his ass was intense. Bart expected that though. You couldn’t get an awkwardly massive man to shove his thirteen-inch-long, nine-inch-circumference cock into a tight ass without some pain. He had smeared himself with lube beforehand, knowing that Gravy was too inexperienced to realize he needed that. Bart usually kept some lube on hand anyway.
Gravy was completely oblivious to the fact that Bart was in pain. If he had thought about it, he would have known it, but he didn’t think about it — girls were normally very vocal about disliking every aspect of his lovemaking, from his big dick to his chest hair to his belly, furry shoulders, his hot breath and the way he made baritone choking sounds like an angry ape. So Gravy was used to assuming whoever he plowed into would let the criticism flow freely. When he didn’t hear Bart complain, he kept on plowing in, struggling to feed in inch after inch of his throbbing meat. He thought about nothing but the mind-numbing pleasure shooting up from his cock.
There was resistance. Bart had trouble taking his entire manhood. When Gravy had plowed into girls, that was a problem because they complained, made him slow down or stop. But Bart wasn’t like that at all. Bart liked the struggle. He savored the pain because it made the pleasure more potent as well.
“Shit, man…” Gravy’s deep voice rocked Bart back and forth.
So Gravy was shocked at how easily he got his dick in. Despite the pain and the tightness, he just kept pushing and Bart just kept accepting it. Finally Gravy was all the way in, his whole body bucking and shaking, his knees nearly giving out, until his pubic hair scratched at Bart’s ass.
In his mind, Gravy thought he wasn’t going to touch Bart any more than he absolutely needed to. He certainly wasn’t going to make love to him. He leaned against the closet wall, and let Bart ride him up and down. His hands flailed above Bart’s body, his muscles quaking as he experienced the ultimate pleasure and did little more than watch Bart impale himself on Gravy’s manhood.
But Bart was slow and sanguine about it. Gravy couldn’t accept that. The more his desire overwhelmed him, the more Gravy’s inhibitions about touching a man melted away. He moved his body back and forth in long strokes, and he moaned with each thrust of his hips. Bart undulated too, in sync with the motion of Gravy’s massive frame. Gravy’s chest and belly rubbed on the smoothness of Bart’s back.
Finally, without even thinking about it, he grabbed Bart by the shoulder and held him in place. He pistoned his hips now, finally plowing into Bart hard, ramming in and out of him with all of his might. He didn’t know anyone would ever take his dick like this. The whole thirteen inches rammed in and out again and again, and each time it battered Bart’s prostate, sending wave after ascending wave of ecstasy to wrack Bart’s frame.
“Goddamn, man, shit! Open up, fuuuuuuucck!” Gravy’s hot breath condensed on top of Bart’s head. If Bart were taller, Gravy thought, he probably would have kissed him out of sheer habit, so he was glad for the height difference — that would have been a step too far.
Before Gravy knew what was happening, they were on the floor in the tiny, darkened closet. Gravy was too tall to fit, his head banged on the wall while his feet bumped into the door. His heavy chest and belly pressed down on Bart’s back.
This was another part where Gravy was used to girls making him stop. When he messed with cheerleaders, they usually weighed about a quarter of his own weight, so they couldn’t take much pressure from above. Gravy had to treat them like delicate pieces of china, like the slightest bit of pressure would make them shatter into a million little pieces. They complained about sweat too, and about his hot breath, his scratchy hairs rubbing against their smooth skin.
But not Bart. He loved all those things. He loved Gravy’s slightly rancid breath, and the stale and fresh sweat that made his belly slippery where it rubbed over Bart’s back. Bart turned his head to the side so he could lick up as much sweat as he could off Gravy’s chesthair.
Gravy wrapped one hand around Bart’s body and stroked his dick. He couldn’t believe he was doing that. He didn’t need to, wasn’t told to do it, but all of a sudden, he wanted to be sure Bart felt just as good as Gravy did. Bart moaned into the meat of Gravy’s massive arms, which wrapped around Bart and held him tightly. The sound of Bart’s pleasures was swallowed up by Gravy’s thickness.
“Oh god…”
“Can I jack you off?” Gravy knew he didn’t need to ask, who would say no to that?
And indeed, Bart writhed and nodded and moaned, as his cock throbbed in Gravy’s grasp. Precum flowed down Gravy’s thick fingers and onto his wrist. It was thick and creamy, and it came out in pulsations that Gravy could feel in Bart’s shaft too.
Maybe it was the clumsiness of Gravy’s unpracticed hand that brought Bart to orgasm so quickly, but as his body contorted around and within Gravy’s thickness, a surge of pleasure flowed through his veins. Bart shot his wad on the ground, a great creamy flow of it, followed by another, and another.
Sandwiched between Gravy and the floor, Bart could feel every spasm in Gravy’s orgasm. His dick was massive inside Bart’s ass, like it was getting bigger as it spewed its creamy load inside him. Gravy’s grunting was cavernous and bestial with Bart’s ears right beneath his chest.
“Oh god, fuck, man, shit…”
Bart squirmed within Gravy’s arms, gasping for air under Gravy’s mountainous torso. His face turned red. The pressure grew so intense he gnawed on Gravy’s stone-like forearm. Gravy didn’t even notice, he just moaned so loud it could be heard in the girl’s locker room down the hall — the volleyball team in there thought it was a howling dog. Gravy’s body was slick with sweat.
He slipped right off Bart, sliding onto a deflated soccer ball next to Bart. Gravy’s mind was already panicking, worried that everyone would find out what had happened and that they’d never stop teasing him. But those worries were deep in the back of his mind.
He closed his eyes. He didn’t even care that girls didn’t like him. He didn’t need girls. He had Bart. He felt so confident in that that he wasn’t even paying attention when Bart put his clothes on. He was dimly aware of Bart using the meat of Gravy’s chest for support as he stood on unsteady legs.
Gravy only realized Bart was leaving when the closet door opened. Blinding light hit Gravy, who winced and looked away.
“You’re leaving?”
Bart nodded. “I’ve got other athletes to see, Gravy.”
“Does that mean you’re not gonna jack me off again?”
Bart smiled. “No. Come see me anytime you need it, Davy. I’ll be here to help.”

The Pehlivan

Rob is in Turkey to sponsor a pehlivan — a Turkish oil wrestler — and maybe get a peek at his body. But it turns out Turks have some unusual ideas about what sponsors, can, should or may do to the men they sponsor, giving Rob an opportunity he’ll never forget!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

The whole plan was overly complicated, in retrospect. As Rob Winthrop dropped to his knees and started to jerk Kaan off, that had become abundantly clear. It had proven much easier to get Kaan’s thick uncut cock in his mouth than he thought it would be.
When Rob had decided to sponsor a Turkish oil pehlivan (called a pehlivan) so he could spend time alone with him, he thought he’d be lucky to get a look at his naked body. He came up with a long excuse for why he needed to see him before and after the match (he didn’t mention that he hoped that was when Kaan would be naked, greasing himself up). He assumed the Turks who managed Kaan’s career wouldn’t like that.
As soon as he met Kaan Gözübüyük, right before the first match began, Kaan stripped off all his clothes there in the staging area. It wasn’t even a locker room, it was wide open, dozens of pehlivans and trainers hanging around, plus a handful of regional Turkish press.
Kaan was a massive, hairy-chested Turkish man with a big uncut cock. He had no regard for modesty. He stood there proudly, hairy body and massive cock all hanging free, still ungreased for the moment. He must have realized Rob was talking to his coach about him, but he still showed no reaction.
Rob talked to the coach, learning about strategy for the match. Rob didn’t understand much of it, and he didn’t pay attention to the coach’s words. Rob had no interest in the sport of it and was unaware until this very moment that a sponsor was apparently expected to hear about strategy and training regiments, promises to win the championship this year. Now that Rob knew listening, and presumably participating in, these kinds of discussions was part of being a sponsor, he realized he didn’t need such a complicated plan to get in here.
“That sounds wonderful, sounds like he’s got a real shot this year,” Rob said. That seemed like the kind of thing a sponsor should say. Inside though, he just kept sneaking glances at Kaan’s motionless body.
Were some of the other sponsors massaging the men? It looked like it, in the periphery of Rob’s eyesight, but he didn’t move his head to see more clearly. That coach could really go on. Some of them didn’t have as much to say, but Kaan’s coach, Coach Badem Kubat, was a real motormouth. He kept switching back to Turkish for a few sentences, as though he thought Rob was fluent, but only in short bursts.
He wondered both how far Kaan was willing to go, how far Coach Badem was willing to allow Kaan to go, and how far modern Turkish society would allow them to go. Now that he saw Kaan in person, Rob had a strong feeling that Kaan was one of those rough machos who didn’t much care whom he rammed so long as he was on top. It’s not shameful if you’re sticking it in someone else’s hole, Rob thought (and hoped Kaan thought).
And then, finally, the coach stopped talking. The other pehlivans had started rubbing olive oil into their skin, and in a few cases, coaches or sponsors or men of uncertain relevance did the rubbing. Much to Rob’s delight, Kaan gave him a bucket of olive oil and invited him to get started — Kaan apparently only spoke Turkish, so he used hand motions to communicate that. He flexed his biceps and his chest, then stood there like a statue, like he expected to be inspected by Rob. So Rob tried to pretend he wasn’t excited to cover Kaan’s hairy muscles in olive oil, as he grimaced and studiously caressed Kaan’s frame.
He eyed him up and down like he was evaluating his musculature. Other sponsors were doing that as the pehlivans got greased up.
In Turkish oil wrestling (yağlı güreş), men oil each other up and wear these loose trousers called kisbet. The goal was to gain control of one’s opponent’s kisbet, such as by sticking your hands down his kisbet. Since both men were greased up with olive oil, they were both slick and slippery, and since they were Turkish, they were handsome, muscular, bulging with powerhouse bodies. It was Rob’s favorite sport.
He massaged oil into every inch of Kaan’s body. He caressed his chest and shoulders, and even wiped oil over Kaan’s asshole and his cock and balls. As he did, he patted each muscle as though he approved of it. He kept one hand on Kaan’s powerfully muscled asscheek, which was flexed tight.
“I will wrestle… sir… the best, uh… Sir…” He gruntingly spoke in English. It was clear he didn’t actually know English, but someone had taught him the words he needed to say. “I am, I have, a, uh, I have a, I am planning, on… plan to strategy. For winning.” He spoke thickly, like his mouth was full of pudding. Rob wrapped one hand around his cock, but he didn’t stroke it, he waited to see if Rob was scolded by either Kaan or the coach. Kaan showed no reaction at all.
“Please do not jerk him off now,” said Coach Badem, who spoke barely comprehensible British-inflected English. “It is bad before a match. It will inhibit his performance.”
Rob blushed and let go of Kaan’s cock. Was this normal? Did a lot of pehlivan sponsors jerk their men off? Now that he thought about it, that seemed likely to Rob — what other sport gives you nearly naked men rubbing oil into each other’s muscles and sticking their hands down each other’s pants? Of course they did it. “Sure, okay-“
“After the match, you may do as you wish. You may service him then, he will submit.”
They walked away then, leaving Rob with greasy hands and the scent of Turkish muscle-sweat in his nostrils. He watched Kaan’s meaty ass shake once he put on his loose kisbet. Kaan gave no indication he understood what Coach Badem said. Was that because Kaan already assumed it would happen? Or did Kaan not speak English well enough to understand?
Rob headed out to the stadium, where he found a seat away from anyone else, it was in a section reserved for sponsors, coaches and others, though they mostly stayed down on the field, giving Rob plenty of space to be alone. He watched the match with a hardon the entire time. His seat was near the action, so close he could taste droplets of sweat and oil on his tongue.
It took most of an hour, but eventually Kaan took his turn, wrestling a similarly massive buck from the other side of Turkey. By then, Rob had picked up enough to be interested in watching, to see if Kaan would win. Kaan seemed like a huge brute, but then, the other Turk did too. Rob would have gladly serviced either one of them.
Turks shouted and cheered. The audience called for one or the either pehlivan to win, and encouraged them both to wrestle their hardest. Rob followed along with his limited Turkish. Luckily none of the whooping and calls were grammatically complex, and Rob got the gist of them.
“Go Kaan!” Rob blushed again because he felt kind of silly, a white guy yelling in poorly articulated Turkish from a lonely corner of the stadium. But no one seemed to notice him. Kaan began the match with a quick grapple, but he was unable to gain control of his opponent’s kisbet. Both men’s muscles writhed, gleaming with olive oil in the brilliant midday Turkish sun.
Flesh slapped on flesh. He wished he could ram his head between their bodies, licking the sweat and olive oil off their bodies. All he could do was watch them fumble with each other’s cock and balls, stroking each other’s hairy asscheeks beneath their kisbets.
Finally, Kaan won. He pumped his biceps with a big goofy grin on his face. The crowd erupted in cheers.
That lasted for only a moment before the referee announced him the winner and Kaan put his stony macho face on — it was untoward for a pehlivan to gloat excessively. Still, Rob could see him bristling with pride.
After that, the tournament continued, but Rob was done watching. He snuck into the changing area just a few paces behind Kaan, whose body was streaked with sweat. He was still worked up, muscles quavering like he was just looking for someone to punch. He paced through the changing area.
“Wait,” Rob said when he got in the changing area and saw that Kaan’s coach was leading him into the shower. “Let me see Kaan first.” Rob didn’t want Kaan to shower before he got a chance to taste all that delicious sweat.
Still shadowboxing the air, Kaan complied, and he came to Rob near the door to the changing area. Just a few feet away the next bout was beginning. The air here was redolent with the scene of male sweat and body hair, and of course rank olive oil. They said they used only high quality olive oil, but Rob was knowledgeable enough to guess that that was a lie. It was cheap-ass stuff.
Not that Rob was bothered by it.
He came closer to Kaan, inhaled deeply of his scent and planted his tongue right on Kaan’s bicep. He licked up all the musk there. Kaan looked at him like he was crazy. Rob chuckled. “Is this alright? I want to lick you all over, Kaan.” He kept his tongue moving up and down his arm, which Kaan flexed.
With a frown on his face, Kaanlooked at Coach Badem, and they spoke in Turkish. The coach cleared his throat. “You may not put a finger in his ass. But yes, you may service him all over.”
Kaan grumbled to himself and danced back and forth on his feet, while Rob’s tongue sopped up all the foul sweat and bitter olive oil clinging to his muscles. Though he played himself off as too tough and crude to be into it, he loved plowing men — he could be meaner and rougher with them than he could with girls — he just didn’t want it to be obvious that he liked it.
And he truly did not like getting licked like a kitten like this. Many sponsors wished to do so, and Kaan would have refused, but then nobody would fund his career.
So he stood there with his arms stiff, cock dangling like he was too good for Rob. Kaan was used to his sponsor controlling everything about him, from what he ate to where he exercised to which girls he spent time with. Having one jerk him off was better than any of those possibilities.
Rob blushed and got started. He first sucked all the sweat off his chest and his back, then his arms, his armpits, his thighs, his hair-choked ass. Kaan was very hairy, which Rob loved. He wanted to taste each kinky black hair and savor the salty sweat that clung to each one. The flavor of sharply astringent sweat flooded Rob’s senses.
You may not stick a finger in his ass.
Was that his only rule? The coach’s words took a moment for Rob to grasp. As his tongue lapped at Kaan’s hairy chest, Rob wondered if Coach Badem was giving him permission to do even more than this. Was it normal? Kaan reacted like it was a necessary but distasteful part of his career.
The bitter savory taste of olive oil assaulted Rob’s senses. He loved how it accentuated the salty-sourness of his sweat. He could even taste a second layer of sweat — that was the other pehlivan’s, the one who lost his match to Kaan, which had a different, grassier, fresher flavor to it. Rob’s hands caressed Kaan’s muscles, which flexed and puckered beneath his grasp.
Kaan stood there, grunting, hands on his waist. His chest heaved and he closed his eyes. Rob dropped to his knees. He picked up Kaan’s cock and looked up — no reaction at all. He tried to make eye contact with Kaan, but his eyes were closed.
This was the part Kaan loved. He felt like a big man, like he was so powerful he could force another man to submit — he knew in this case he wasn’t forcing the man, but still, to him it felt like he could have forced it. He was potent enough and strong enough and tough enough to make a man submit to his will.
At last Rob put the tip in his mouth, just the tip, which again sparked no response from Kaan. Rob’s hands reached up massaged his chest while his mouth suckled on Kaan’s cocktip, which made a twinge of firmness erupt in his shaft. It still was nowhere near a full erection, but it was beginning, and Kaan’s muscles rippled from head to toe. Rob pulled off his knob and craned his head around Kaan’s powerful thighs to make eye contact with Coach Badem, “Sorry, is this alright? I don’t want to sponsor a man whose manhood doesn’t work. I must inspect him. I know he won his match, but I do not know how serious of a rival the other pehlivan was.”
Coach Badem nodded. “Yes. That is fine. Jerk him off all you wish.”
Kaan grunted and said something in Turkish. The coach responded like he disagreed, and they argued. Then the coach flared his nostrils.
“Kaan says you may put a finger in his ass,” he said. He hesitated as though going to give a reason, but then he just bit his lip. Finally he added, “it is only just… It is a valid… There are medical reasons you may wish to do that, to inspect his manhood and its functioning.”
Rob hadn’t noticed that Kaan’s eyes were open, sneaking a glance down at Rob. When they made eye contact, Kaan closed them again and pretended that they had never been open. His muscular body swayed from side to side as Rob sucked on his dicktip.
A giggle escaped from Rob’s lips as he realized that Kaan was asking to get fingered. No wonder, he thought, Coach Badem had hurried to forbid that. Rob’s hand snuck up between Kaan’s hairy legs to his ass, which was also choked with dense kinky hairs.
A sigh escaped from Kaan’s lips as he felt Rob’s finger teasing the rim of his asshole, and Kaan’s desirous reaction made Coach Badem let a groan escape from his own lips. Rob’s fingertip on Kaan’s tight asshole made him shudder and bite his lip to avoid a louder sound.
“Remember yourself, Kaan.”
He disliked Coach Badem telling him what to do all the time. Unlike his sponsor, Kaan’s coach didn’t pay him money (he did buy him food and clothes and girls and other things, but Kaan didn’t think about that too much), so Kaan didn’t want to hear orders from him. He didn’t have a choice but to do what Coach Badem said though.
As he kept stroking, Rob slipped his finger between Kaan’s cheeks. The flesh there was choked with fur, sweat and olive oil, which made Rob moan with desire. Kaan grunted too, though he tried to keep it from being too loud — he was still pretending for Coach Badem’s sake that he didn’t want to do this.
Then Rob’s finger slipped in further, massaging just inside the rim of his asshole. Kaan groaned, his dick rocketing to full erection even before Rob entered him. His hole puckered and opened, virtually sucking Rob’s finger into him.
“Ah….” Kaan couldn’t help but moan. That bone-rattlingly deep grunt escaped from Kaan’s mouth, and his cock twitched. Precum flowed freely down Rob’s throat. The salty flavor was the same as, but somehow also different from, the taste of the oil-and-sweat film that covered Kaan’s body hair.
Kaan spread his legs to give Rob better access to his ass. That way Rob could really get in there, ramming his finger in and out now that he could tell that neither Kaan nor Coach Badem were going to stop him. First, Rob used his pinkie finger, but Kaan was a big man and he didn’t complain, so Rob switched to his middle finger. When even that went in easily, Rob used both his middle and index finger.
At last that made Kaan grunt and bite his lip. His asshole clenched down tightly on Rob’s finger. Pain made him break out in sweat again, but then that melted away, replaced by intense pleasure and a rolling, undulating moan. Rob worked that dick harder, timing his fingers so that he had them all the way in Kaan’s ass at the same moment that Rob had his mouth off Kaan’s cock, then he switched them, going back and forth until Kaan was on the verge of orgasm.
“Finish up, Kaan. There is much for us to do.”
His balls twitched and his cock pulsated angrily — Kaan hated to be rushed, especially by Coach Badem. He remained motionless with his hands on his hips, but he let loose with a panoply of sounds from his bearded mouth, and his knees buckled when a pang of bliss shot up his spine.
He was near orgasm, but it stopped now. Kaan’s cock was rock-hard, bigger than it had ever been before, or so it seemed to Kaan. He blinked his eyes, needing to fight back the urge to grab Rob’s head and make him swallow it some more.
As Rob turned around, lifting his ass in the air, Kaan grumbled happily but Coach Badem frowned. He didn’t say anything, but he did lightly pat Kaan on his meaty shoulder as though reminding him of something. Kaan growled and pushed him away. He knew Coach Badem didn’t think this was appropriate — he didn’t even approve of having sex with women in the ass — but Kaan was glad to prove he wasn’t Coach Badem’s slave.
“Shut up, I will do it. My sponsor has ordered me to,” Kaan said in Turkish, glad to have an excuse. He closed his eyes and murmured to himself, ignoring Coach Badem’s judgmental stare.
So Rob backed his ass onto Kaan’s cock. Still, Kaan didn’t move. He kept his hands on his hips even as his muscles rippled and he sighed like Rob was scratching an itch that had been bothering Kaan for a very long time. He watched his dick sink into Rob’s tight hole.
At first, pain hit Rob, and Kaan grunted, his hands still at his side as if he didn’t want to be involved in this. That wasn’t going to slow Rob down. It was now clear sponsors were allowed, even expected, to do this kind of thing, and it was true, he did want to test Kaan’s manhood. If it were lacking, Rob would stop sponsoring him. All those things were true.
And all of them added up to Rob being allowed to penetrate himself with Kaan’s massive cock. It twitched and slipped out of his ass. Rob kept one hand on the floor to steady himself, while his other hand reached behind his body to hold Kaan’s erection in place. It throbbed in his grip. Kaan jutted his hips forward, but otherwise he simply didn’t particpate, only watching as Rob struggled to force himself lower and lower on Kaan’s shaft.
A slow-melting sense of pleasure exploded in Rob’s ass. Kaan’s lack of movement was unusual and made the positioning rather awkward for Rob, but that only made the plowing feel even better. Rob slid his ass backwards onto Kaan’s dick, which had enough spit and olive oil on it to act as lube.
“Oh god, yes…” Rob said with a moan. He realized that made the coach uncomfortable, so he added, “Yes, I have made a good investment in your man. You have trained him well. His manhood is very functional.”
The coach wrinkled his nose. He patted Kaan on the asscheek, which made Kaan grunt. Kaan bristled and again pushed Coach Badem away, but then a series of snarls and staccato Turkish syllables erupted between them. In the end, Kaan’s coach kept a possessive hand on his ass — and was he fingering him? Rob thought maybe, but he couldn’t see at all without craning his head behind himself.
Rob wondered if masturbating was going to be a problem. It might not have even been obvious he was doing it, he thought, since the coach seemed to be trying not to look even if he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t noticing the details, and Rob’s hand was covered up by his body. So as Kaan’s dick rammed at his prostate again and again, Rob began stroking his own self off. His prostate thrummed, sending a continuous wave of pleasure through his body, a wave that was knocked up a notch with each thrust of Rob’s cock down on Kaan’s ass.
He got the feeling that Kaan knew Rob was jacking his own self off though, even if he couldn’t see. Rob always felt an intimate connection like this with any man who was inside him — that was, he thought, part of being a god. He could sense the pleasure roiling deep within Kaan.
Once Rob got into the swing of things, Kaan did dimple his asscheeks as he daggered his dick in Rob’s ass. Rob didn’t need to do all the work. But Kaan only barely moved his body, like he was concealing his participation in this — maybe Coach Badem would be mad if Kaan did it too willingly? Rob didn’t understand what was happening, but he was glad that Kaan was ramming, ever so slightly, pushing his dickshaft over and into Rob’s sensitive prostate.
When Kaan reached his orgasm, Rob sensed it coming. He felt it in his soul, in the throbbing of his cock, in the way he breathed, in the forefront of Kaan’s mind, in his balls crawling up in his sac. Rob felt it roll over him like a wave. Ecstasy erupted in both men’s bodies at the same time. Kaan’s muscles rippled beneath Coach Badem’s grasp.
His own load flew out onto the floor of the changing area, while Rob moaned so loud it made the coach uncomfortable. Kaan grunted furiously, aggressively, though not loudly — he twisted and writhed, finally letting go of his own hips and grabbing Rob by the waist.
He slammed his cock all the way into Rob, then pressed down on him with all of his might. That forced his entire massive manhood into Rob’s ass, while his chest pressed against Rob’s smooth back.
As though he had been expecting this, the coach barked an order — which Rob could guess was quit it! — and smacked Kaan’s ass again and again to get his attention. Kaan snarled, ignored him, then pushed him away one more time.
Finally it was done. Rob’s ass was so full he couldn’t help but moan, squirming as Kaan slowly withdrew his cock. Each centimeter that slid out Rob’s rim sent another burst of sensations to wrack Rob’s tiny body. Kaan continued stonefacing even as the aftershocks of his own orgasm visibly rippled through his body.
At last, Kaan’s limp dick popped out, and Rob sighed when a mind-blowing sense of relief flooded his body. He had rarely been rammed so good. He moaned and collapsed onto the floor of the changing area, watching as Kaan scowled while Coach Badem scolded him.
“You should not have done that. It was disgusting, and it is not tolerated in this country..”
Kaan grumbled, hung his head, rolled his eyes and said, “Yes, sir.” He wished he could just wrestle, without coaches and journalists and fans, just him and his opponent and someone submissive he could drain his balls into when he was done. That, he thought, was the best part of yağlı güreş.
“Goodbye,” Rob said when they finally walked away. “Good match, Kaan. You’re an excellent pehlivan.”

The Turkish Oil Wrestler Bottoms

Abdul is a small Turkish oil wrestler assigned to wrestle the legendary heavyweight Mustafa Mounsir, but when he unexpectedly wins, Abdul is in for a treat! That’s cuz Mustafa is gonna have to bend over and take his punishment for losing, but can Abdul dish it out? Can Mustafa handle this foray into the world of Twink on Top?!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Abdul Karademir thought this was ridiculous. He didn’t know why he agreed to it. He was a wrestler — a pehlivan, a contestant in Turkish oil wrestling — but he weighed about a hundred and thirty pounds. The league he and his villagemates wrestled in didn’t have formal weight classes, but he and Mustafa Mounsir should never have been assigned to wrestle together.
It was clearly a mistake. But the other wrestlers thought it was hilarious, and they scattered around the field whooping and ululating. They cheered on Mustafa mainly, not Abdul. No cheering for the underdog here. Abdul felt tiny when he came out onto the field, while Mustafa strode out on his massive trunk-like thighs, each step seemingly as long as Abdul was tall.
“Fuck him up, Mustafa!”
“Bring that clean-shirt down!”
Abdul was not very popular, that was why they wanted to see him get his ass beaten by Mustafa. The other wrestlers were all rough machos who mostly worked for the oil rig right off the coast, near the village. They were gone for months at a time, and when they returned, they were horny, aggressive and macho. They worked with their hands, which were callused, and their broad shoulders were burnt and scarred, strapping, with tufts of unkempt hair stretching down from their necks. Abdul was the only wrestler who worked a white-collar job — he was a doctor at the clinic in the village — and he was the smallest. He was proud of his abilities as a wrestler and as a doctor, but he knew he couldn’t beat Mustafa.
Mustafa was a great big bear of a man. He was nearly six and a half feet tall. He was more than three hundred pounds of solid muscle, hair and flesh. His shoulders were so wide they looked uncomfortable, and his heavyset body had the gait of a war stallion. He could demolish three wrestlers like Abdul with his hands tied behind his back. Mustafa was the biggest wrestler for miles around, maybe in the entire province.
The whistle blew, and the match began. It happened so fast. Abdul only found out he was scheduled to wrestle Mustafa about ten minutes ago.
Abdul was nervous, though he thought he shouldn’t be, since no one expected him to win. If he could just avoid losing within the first two or three minutes, he could be proud of himself. that would be a good enough showing.
The other wrestlers hooted and hollered. They cheered Abdul on, but it was clear who they wanted to win — they wanted Abdul to wrestle hard so Mustafa would feel compelled to beat him senseless. They wanted to watch the “clean shirt” get his ass handed to him.
As they circled each other, Mustafa glared at Abdul and flashed a cruel, cocky smile. There was no chance he’d let Abdul win, no chance he’d even play around a bit so Abdul could try. Like the other wrestlers, Mustafa hated the white-collar Abdul, whose smooth skin was light-brown and unmarked by scars.
“Take him down, Mustafa!”
As Abdul gripped Mustafa’s oily chest, he remembered exactly why he had agreed to this match instead of forfeiting from the getgo. He knew he’d lose, and he’d be humiliated by it. He hadn’t agreed to wrestle because he thought he could win. He had simply dreamed of grappling with a greased-up bear like Mustafa, so he jumped at the chance.
That was because Abdul was a great admirer of the male physique. Mustafa’s physique was beyond what Abdul got to experience most of the time, and he couldn’t wait to get his hands all over Mustafa’s body. Abdul was a doctor, he’d even treated Mustafa at the clinic. But his mindset was totally different in doctor-mode than it was now, and he never got to take in the grandeur and majesty of Mustafa’s massiveness when he saw him as a doctor.
“I’m gonna destroy you, boy,” Mustafa growled as soon as the match began. “You pansy-ass weakling! Go back to your clinic, with the girls and women, you will fit in there.” He said it loud enough that everyone heard and laughed.
Abdul blushed, but there was little he could do about it, he wasn’t quick-witted enough to come up with any insults of his own, and he could barely reach Mustafa’s face much less punch him in it. In any case, he did work mainly with women — nurses — so he couldn’t dispute that part of it.
Mustafa’s hands rammed into Abdul’s kisbet. The kisbet is a pair of short pants, like lederhosen that end over the upper ankle. They were black leather, stiff but loose around the waist. The goal of Turkish oil wrestling was to gain control over your opponent, usually by reaching into the kisbet and grabbing ahold of it from the inside. Since both wrestlers and their kisbets were coated in olive oil, it was slippery and chaotic, and the only way to win was to put your hands all over your opponent. That was one of the things Abdul liked most about it.
“Yeah, bring him down, Mustafa! You can do it! Destroy that smooth-skinned nerd!”
“Mustafa! Mustafa! Mustafa!”
Mustafa reached into Abdul’s kisbet, hands brushing against his cock. He had rough fingers, huger than seemed possible, like cricket bats it seemed to Abdul. The larger wrestlers touching his manhood sent a shiver of desire up Abdul’s spine, but he straightened his back to focus on the match. The more the other wrestlers chanted for Mustafa, the more devoted Abdul was to making this match last long enough he could his head up at the end of it.
As his hands roughly grabbed, then let go of, Abdul’s dick, Mustafa growled at him. He clutched the leather of Abdul’s kisbet, which was coated in olive oil. Mustafa failed to get a good grip on it.
Abdul had a fighter’s spirit, so he managed to dart away despite his innate desire to stand right there let Mustafa paw all over him. He swung around, jumping onto Mustafa’s back, hoping to push him to the ground, but Mustafa stood up straight and shook his back, trying to get Abdul off.
“Climbing Mount Mustafa, huh!?”
“Oooh!”
“Mustafa! Mustafa! Mustafa!”
“Bring him down!”
The other wrestlers laughed. Only a handful of people had shown up to watch today’s match, a small crowd even by this tiny league’s standards. Most of the audience was the other wrestlers, either waiting for their match or recovering from it, who hooted as Abdul gripped Mustafa’s broad, strapping back. Mustafa’s muscles tightened and rippled beneath Abdul’s touch.
But his grip was not tight. Abdul didn’t have a good hold on Mustafa because both men were covered in oil. He clawed at Mustafa’s skin as he slipped, and his feet tried in vain to grip Mustafa’s body. His flesh was firm but greasy with olive oil, and Abdul kept treading with his feet to stay aloft on Mustafa’s slippery back.
As Abdul slid down the man’s rippling-muscled back, his toes grabbed ahold of the waist of Mustafa’s kisbet, pulling that down along with him. He didn’t mean to, but he bared Mustafa’s asscheeks.
In seconds, Abdul was on the ground, standing behind Mustafa, with his face plastered in the meaty, hair-covered ass of the much bigger Turkish man. The reek and funk of Mustafa’s ass assaulted Abdul’s senses, and he inhaled deeply of it. He found the scent exhilarating, dizzying, electrifying. It smelled and tasted so strongly of man, and it made Abdul reel, as his hands roamed over Mustafa’s beaty body.
The wrestlers screamed with laughter as Mustafa quaked, and his asscheeks jiggled around Abdul’s face. All that only took a few seconds, as Mustafa struggled to regain his balance and his momentum.
The onlookers no doubt assumed Abdul was humiliated, rather than aroused, at touching Mustafa’s ass with his face, and that Mustafa was embarrassed to be naked (which was probably true). Accidental nudity happened occasionally, so it wasn’t a huge surprise. That was why no women or children were allowed anywhere’s near the field on match days. Women didn’t even know how the sport worked.
The wrestlers jeered at Mustafa’s big swinging dick, which swayed between his legs as he tried to get Abdul in front of him. It was so thick — Abdul wondered if it was always that thick and how did he never noticed that when Mustafa came into the clinic for a physical exam — it swayed like a pendulum as Mustafa swaggeringly stood. It was a foot long and smooth, slightly lighter in color than Mustafa’s baked brown body.
Abdul didn’t want to move. He loved the taste of Mustafa’s olive oil-scented ass. It was sweet and salty and savory, he could have stayed there and licked the man’s burly ass for hours if he could have gotten away with it. But Mustafa was too macho to allow anything like so, so that face-in-ass position only lasted a few moments before Mustafa bent over to pull his kisbet up.
And that was when Abdul took his opportunity — he grabbed the kisbet as well. No strategy in mind, Abdul simply saw that he could hold Mustafa’s kisbet, and that was the goal of Turkish oil wrestling, so that was what Abdul did. He pulled the kisbet back as Mustafa pulled it up, and the result was Mustafa falling forward on his knees, then collapsing onto his belly when he lost his balance.
That was it. Within a few seconds, Abdul was declared the winner. He held onto that kisbet with both hands, and he was just barely strong enough to lift Mustafa’s feet a few inches off the ground. With Mustafa collapsing on his belly, bare ass resplendently brown in the brilliant Turkish sun, all he could do was squeal and flail about. He had no leverage to get Abdul away from him.
“Oh shit, the little man won!”
“Did you see that?!”
The match was over. Abdul had won. His face was scrunched up, still dripping with the oil that had been on Mustafa’s hairy asscheeks.
The audience cheered, momentarily on Abdul’s side even though he was white-collar. He was so shocked he barely registered what had happened as the wrestlers stormed the field and congratulated him. He was mobbed, and presumably Mustafa was too, but Abdul couldn’t see far through the crowd of wrestlers and fans.
Abdul accepted their congratulations with as much grace and magnamity as he could muster. The onlookers all seemed to have forgotten they were rooting for Mustafa throughout this, like he hoped to convince Abdul and each other that they had bet on the longshot all along.
As the celebration died down, abdul and the other wrestlers headed into the hammam attached to the field, while they relived and relived again the match that had just happened. Abdul was aching now that the adrenaline had worn off, and his bruised and battered body hurt. He didn’t let on though.
While hammams were very often ornate and fancy buildings, this was a squat concrete structure with a few saunas, baths and showers. The floor was dirty, with underwear and oil-soaked kisbets littering the ground. It reeked in here, of body hair and olive oil and other base, musky scents Abdul couldn’t place.
“Good job, Abdul!”
“Mustafa is not as unbeatable as he seemed. You beat him when even Kaan couldn’t.”
But Abdul was not very popular among the other wrestlers, who still regarded him as an outsider. Even as a winner now, he was not popular, and they all remembered that he was a white-collar clean-shirt, not a roughneck like them. Soon the excitement had worn off, and the men were all gone. Abdul delayed leaving, both because he was worked up over the victory and because he always liked to hang around watching his fellow wrestlers wash the oil off their muscles.
He hadn’t even noticed that Mustafa was still there. He had been upset, and he spoke with his coach — Coach Badem — after the match, which was why he hadn’t showered yet. Coach Badem no doubt scolded him for his loss to a much smaller man.
When Abdul finally got close again to Mustafa, he glared at him, and Abdul looked down. His confidence was gone.
“Hey, I’m sorry about that,” Abdul said. “I… didn’t mean to pull your kisbet down or anything. That’s just how it happened. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Do not be sorry. You won,” he said.
“Well… okay. But everybody knows you’re a better wrestler than me. You’re stronger, heavier, you’re better in every way at this. That’s why they were so excited to see me win. It was a fluke. Everyone knows that,” Abdul said. “It’s just fun to see an underdog win.”
“I know,” Mustafa said. His voice was grim and flat-lipped. “Coach Badem says I should punish myself for my failure.”
“That’s not really necessary-“
“You must ram me.”
“What?” Abdul thought for sure he had misheard that.
But Mustafa didn’t repeat himself. He sighed and grabbed for Abdul’s kisbet. He pulled it down, revealing Abdul’s bare cock, and he dropped to his knees. Before Abdul could process what was happening, Mustafa swallowed it to the root, all in one smooth motion.
Standing on his feet and sucking in his breath, Abdul gasped, unable to think of how to respond except standing there and letting it happen. Sparks of pleasure erupted instantly throughout Abdul’s body, and a long wavering moan escaped from his throat. Mustafa’s hairy body exuded heat palpable even in the hammam, as Abdul’s hands once again roamed over his muscles.
The other wrestlers always said that whoever lost was going to get plowed. They frequently threatened it, against each other and, especially, against the wrestlers from other villages when they competed in tournaments. They whispered warnings not to drop the soap in the shower.
But nobody ever followed through. That was something that happened like a hundred years ago, as far as Abdul knew. That was how they used to punish the loser. Abdul always suspected that this sport was invented by men who wanted to set up precisely that sort of scenario.
But no modern-day wrestlers did that when they lost, right? He assumed it didn’t happen anymore, if it ever did. It was just a joke, a threat, not something that would actually be done.
He couldn’t deny that Mustafa’s big body was stooped way over so he could handle Abdul’s dick, which sprang to attention in his big mouth. Even as Abdul insisted to himself it wouldn’t happen, Mustafa let Abdul’s dick slip past his lips.
He gagged profusely at first, coughing up a thick mess of spit that dripped down Abdul’s dick. Since both men were still covered in oil, their flesh gleamed, Abdul’s was smooth, nearly hairless aside from his head and thin beard. Mustafa, on the other hand, was marked with scars, evidence of his rough-and-tumble career on an oil rig and a lifetime of drunken fighting when he was in his less-devout phases.
Mustafa’s beard was thick and scratchy, rubbing against Abdul’s thighs as Mustafa moved his head up and down that shaft. He seemed surprised that he had trouble deep-throating Abdul — because, Abdul guessed, Mustafa assumed that a small man must have a small dick.
Intense pleasure shot through Abdul’s body. He had been so shocked by it happening in the first place that his dick took a minute or two to fully react, and then a bolt of pleasure shot through Abdul’s frame. He moaned and grunted, watching the muscles of Mustafa’s back as he struggled to deep-throat Abdul’s dick.
Abdul groaned and gripped the thick mess of dark hair on Mustafa’s head. His cock pulsated as precum leaked out. Mustafa wrinkled his nose but didn’t stop.
The difference in size made it difficult for Mustafa to get his mouth all the way down on Abdul’s cockshaft. He had to stoop way over, and Abdul was still on his toes so Mustafa could reach his crotch more easily. But the sight of the big Turkish brute being forced to struggle with his dick turned Abdul on.
Then Mustafa pulled off. He wrinkled his nose and glared at Abdul, as though Abdul was making him do this. Tendrils of spit and maybe precum still connected his mouth to Abdul’s crotch.
“What? I’m sorry, don’t be mad at me. I didn’t tell you to do this. Coach Badem said to do it, you could tell him no,” Abdul said. “You could tell him you did it but not actually do it. I’ll back you up-“
“I am not angry at you. I am angry at myself. Coach Badem says that I must teach my body that it will get punished for humiliating me like this. He says I should not have allowed you to get in that position,” he said. He hung his head. “I think… he is right. I can get a sponsor if I focus on my athleticism. I should not have lost to you, and my humiliation will teach me a lesson. I will not misjudge a man for being small again.”
Mustafa bent over the bench in the center of the hammam. His body was so wide it wasn’t easy to balance himself on it, but his thick ass was right in front of Abdul. Abdul had to stand on his toes to gain access to it. He had never plowed such a big man, whose cheeks were bigger than Mustafa’s head, and covered with thick black hairs that trapped the sweat and olive oil that remained stuck to his skin.
He held his breath as he pushed his cock in. Mustafa bit his lip and grunted in pain. Abdul gripped his broad back and pushed in deeper until he felt resistance.
“Are you okay?”
“Just stick it in me! You are supposed to hold me down and make it hurt. It is supposed to be punishment,” Mustafa said. He sounded frustrated, like he just wanted to get this over with. He closed his eyes.
“I can’t hold you down, Mustafa,” he said. “I’m like a third your size. There’s no way I can keep you down. And I don’t want to anyway. If it hurts, tell me to stop-“
“No, keep going.”
“I can use lube, I don’t have any, but we could take a break and find some, or we could just get more olive oil,” Abdul said. He grabbed a pitcher of olive oil from a shelf nearby. It made for a fairly effective lube, he found, and it helped him get a few more inches in past those hairy asscheeks.
Soon enough, Abdul was drilling his dick in easily. He mounted Mustafa to get a better angle at his ass, and he rode his back like a horse. Since he was so much shorter than Mustafa, Abdul’s head was wedged in the meaty center of his back.
Mustafa shifted until he was on his knees on the edge of the bench. His massive cock dangled. Abdul wondered idly if it was hard, then reached for it without giving it a second thought.
It wasn’t hard, but as soon as he touched it, two things happened. Mustafa jumped, startled, as Abdul wrapped his fingers around his cock, and then his manhood rocketed to attention as though it had just been waiting for someone to touch it. Mustafa groaned, the pained tenor in his voice now replaced by a slow melting pleasure.
“You are giving me a reacharound? I do not deserve it,” Mustafa said. He hung his head and winced as though speaking reawakened the pain in his ass — or maybe it was the surge of pleasure now that Abdul stroked his dick.
“You do so, don’t be so down on yourself,” Abdul said. “Losing wasn’t a big deal, it was an utter fluke.” Despite Mustafa’s protestations, he didn’t try to get his dick away from Abdul’s hand. He bucked his hips as he moved in sync with Abdul’s motions, clenching on Abdul’s dick while his own manhood pulsated beneath Abdul’s fingers.
The bitter and sweet taste of olive oil seared into Abdul’s mind as the sweat and oil mixture flowed into his mouth from Mustafa’s back. Abdul licked and groped all over Mustafa’s body. Despite his verbal reluctance, Mustafa seemed to enjoy every moment of it.
Mustafa even shot his load first. Maybe that was just because Abdul was a doctor who knew exactly how to hit the prostate, but he liked to think it was because he was so good at it. He could feel the intense pleasure coursing through Mustafa’s veins as those broad back and shoulders muscles writhed. Mustafa grunted so hard and so desperately that it sounded almost painful.
Cum flowed across Abdul’s hand. He held out his other hand to soak most of it up, wanting to eat it. His semen was thick, hot, creamily dripping between Abdul’s fingers. Mustafa’s body shook and writhed as his orgasm flowed through him.
Then Abdul licked all the cum off his hands. The sour and sweet flavor overwhelmed his senses, and sent his own pleasure to the next level. He rolled his eyes and arched his back. His dick slammed in and out of Mustafa’s broad ass, which was now loose enough that plowing was easy. It didn’t seem to hurt him any longer either, which was nice, Abdul didn’t want to cause him pain.
But he did writhe as pleasure overcame him. Mustafa’s orgasm continued even as his dick limpened up, and his ass squeezed around Abdul’s dick.
“Ah, oooooh, stick it me…” Mustafa murmured, then bit his lip like he regretted saying it. But his ass didn’t lie and couldn’t hide how intensely he loved the prostate stimulation.
That was enough to send Abdul over the edge. He gasped and grunted, gripping Mustafa tightly. Cum flowed out of his cock, filling Mustafa’s ass. Abdul sighed loudly. Mustafa bucked and arched his back, grimacing as he accepted every drop of cum.
Then Abdul backed out. He held onto Mustafa’s tight, flexed back muscles though, savoring their feel and taste until Mustafa shifted. Mustafa stood, a sheepish frown on his face like he was embarrassed at how easy that was.
“If Coach Badem asks,” Mustafa said softly. “Tell him I cried. Tell him it hurt very badly.”
Abdul nodded. He was too tired and spent to tell Mustafa he shouldn’t be so humiliated. He knew that wouldn’t work anyway, it would just sound patronizing, he thought. So he allowed it and watched as Mustafa strode off into the showers.
Abdul sat down, alone, still so shocked that he couldn’t even think about what to do next. He needed to shower too but he assumed that Mustafa wanted to be alone right now, and Abdul just wanted to sit. Besides, he was covered in Mustafa’s alpha scent at the moment, and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to wipe that off.
As he waited for his turn in the shower, Abdul wondered how he could lose to Mustafa in a way that would make Coach Badem order Abdul to be on the bottom next time. Abdul resolved to lose in a particularly embarrassing way the next time he could do so — that would help Mustafa feel like he had regained his masculinity, while also being enjoyable for Abdul.
He smiled and sighed as he imagined what that would be like. He was interrupted by Coach Badem himself, who poked his head in, wrinkling his nose tentatively as if worried about what he would walk in on. When he saw that Abdul was there alone, he frowned.
“Did Mustafa…?”
“Yeah, he did it. He did what you wanted.”
“Good. I hope he learned his lesson.”
“I sure think so, Coach Badem,” Abdul said with a smile. “I think he learned that lesson very good. I was glad to teach him.”

The Hockey Player Bottoms

Rob goes to a hockey game with some female friends, and he winds up in the locker room with all the players! That’s when he gets the incredible opportunity to experience Seven Minutes in Heaven with the studliest hockey player around, resulting in Rob’s most intense experience in Twink on Top yet!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Rob Winthrop came to the hockey game with a bunch of his female friends, but he didn’t come because he liked hockey. Hockey was boring, as he saw it. He came because he wanted to see the GHU Titans change out of their hockey gear. The women said they were going into the locker room after the game. One of his friends had an in with the team.
But the whole thing had turned into a boring, time-consuming mess. Rob left last night and spent the night in a hotel room because the traffic promised to be nightmarish both before and after the game. They had to get to the game two hours early to make it through security in time, and then the game started a half-hour late.
It frankly wasn’t worth it. While Rob greatly appreciated the male physique and he had no doubt the Titans comprised some excellent specimens of it, it seemed unlikely he’d get to do much more than catch a few peeks. The girls were already divvying up the hockey players. The players were not gonna give Rob the time of day if they were women to paw over.
He didn’t leave though, because of the aforementioned traffic. It would take him like an hour just to get to the street through the mobbish crowd, and out on the street, hooligans were lighting shit on fire, or so the rumor mill went. It happened that way — Titans fans rioted in celebration if they won and in frustration if they lost, and somehow they were justified either way. If Rob left now, he’d have to venture out mid-riot to get somewhere placid enough he could catch an uber, and then if he did so, he’d be paying surge pricing. Surge pricing. Boo!
So he stuck with it. He hung back nervously as the girls flirted with the men, who stood around in their hockey gear, uncertain whether they should strip while the girls were there. The players had just come in and were excitedly talking to each other and the girls. The topic of conversation was a party back on campus or possibly at a house, nobody was sure where or which one.
“You ladies wanna mess around?” asked a player, Derek. He was the goalie, a broad-shouldered stud with a grizzled chin and a tough look on his face. He had a crooked nose and cauliflower ears, blood trickling down his cheek from a fight that happened near the end of the game.
“Yeah, we do! You got a party to go to?”
“He probably wants a blowjob, Paula, go on and suck him off. We all know you want to!”
“You’re such a slut! “
“I bet Megan wants to lick your asshole, Derek!”
The girls hadn’t been drinking, but they giggled like they had been — they were just covering up their nervousness about being around sweaty men. They squealed and fell over each other, pretending they didn’t like the body odor of the masculine men filling up the locker room with their armpits and feet. Rob smiled and tried to play along, but the smell of these players in their sweat-stained gear got him excited. His dick painfully stiffened in his pants. He laughed with his girlfriends and tried not to look too creepy.
As predicted, the men ignored him. Rob had a feeling that, if you asked, the hockey players would have denied there being a male among the women who came in here after the game. They had situational blindness to him.
“Let’s split up,” Derek said. “There’s one girl for each guy here, right?” He paused to count. “Oh wait, we’re one short…”
Everybody looked at Rob, and all of a sudden, Rob was not invisible anymore. Well, not sudden, as the hockey players had to count, and you know how they are with math. It took a minute or two. Derek even looked around the locker room and peered under the bench most of the players sat on, as though there might be a heretofore undiscovered component of his hockey team.
His face burning, Rob extended one limp wrist for Derek to kiss it. He smirked and said, “Are you proposing something, Derek?”
It was Derek’s turn to cough nervously and turn bright red. The girls screamed peals of laughter. They all spoke at once, but the consensus was that they should totally pair up, even if that meant one of the hockey players had to be with Rob.
“Well, I don’t care, I’ll let anyone jerk me off-“
“I just need to bust a nut, man!”
“Megan wants to lick your asshole!”
“Shit, I don’t care, I just wanna talk to girls,” Derek said like that was a brag. “I’ll get off, yeah, cool, I mean-“
“Ewww, Megan loves to give rimjobs-!” Megan and Paula were falling all over each other laughing over accusations of rimjobs. The reason why is long and complicated and full of girls, so Rob was uninterested, but the gist of it was that Megan would never give anyone a rimjob, much less one of these hairy unwashed hockey players.
Despite his words, Rob got the impression that Derek, and most of the other players remaining — a few had already gone off with women — did care very much about who jerked them off. They didn’t want to be paired up with Rob. But each player had only a one in eight chance of being chosen, so each one was individually confident he wouldn’t get Rob, and no one wanted to be the one who brought the girls’ excitement down. As soon as Derek boasted and made himself look tough and macho, anyone who declined would seem weak and beta in comparison.
When Rob passed Chazz, a defenseman with a stocky body and visible jockstrap above his pants, Rob let his finger curl under that elastic strap. It was sweaty, and he felt kinky hairs there. He giggled as Chazz tensed but grinned.
“Let’s see, who do I want…?” he said, dramatizing his indecision as he walked around the locker room. Of course, he already knew who he wanted — Derek. He was the biggest, toughest and hairiest macho on the team. Luckily for Rob, he was also confident that Derek was the one the girls liked least, he had such alpha machismo that it was a turnoff for most girls, plus he was hairy, dripping with sweat and had a face that hadn’t been classically handsome even before years of fighting had bashed it into a crude, cauliflowery menace.
Then Rob stopped in front of Reybaud, the Quebecois player with broad shoulders and an intense grin. He smiled as Rob slipped his hand into the back of his pants, cradled his bare ass and even ran a finger in his asscrack. The girls all squealed on the conga line extending behind Rob.
“Wait, we should do this fairly! Spin the Bottle! Seven Minutes in Heaven!”
“Ooh, yeah, Seven Minutes in Heaven! Let’s play that!”
The girls didn’t even wait for the guys to agree. They just assumed everyone would be into it. Rob was annoyed he wasn’t going to be able to engineer a situation in which he got Derek. Shoulda chosen him right off the bat. He liked being the center of attention for awhile, that was it, he shoulda realized that wasn’t going to last. Women would never tolerate not being the center of attention.
“The men have gotta do whatever their partner says, no matter what! Even if Megan wants to lick your asshole!”
“Oh my god, you are so gross! I told you I’d never do it!”
“Once you go brown, you’re always down, that’s what they always say!”
“No one ever says that!”
The guys nervously assembled in a circle, while the girls did the same. Someone said they should alternate male and female, but the girls were too excited and the players were too nervous to really do that. In the end, it was a mixed hodgepodge, but they were in a circle. They used an empty water bottle to spin.
Reybaud spun first. He smiled when he came up Megan. Then came Nestor, who got Paula, and Chazz, who was matched up with Rachel.
And then was Derek. As he spun the water bottle, Rob prayed it would point at him.
That was exactly what happened.
Derek groaned and clutched his sides. The girls squealed and cheered. The girls who had already gotten a man — and had gone off to the individual shower stalls to do whatever they were going to do — poked their heads out to see who had been assigned with Rob.
A part of Rob was insulted that this was seen as such a spectacle, but a bigger part of Rob was excited. Despite Derek’s words, he had a feeling Derek wasn’t going to let Rob do anything more than feel up his chest, maybe — maybe — give him a handjob, but it was still exhilarating. Just standing with Derek in the tiny shower stall would be arousing enough.
A lot of college boys these days were all talk, no action. That rapper Commodore had a song about getting dome with a clear implication that he got it from a man, cuz a real tough alpha don’t care whose mouth he nuts in. Every alpha male at GHU was echoing that sentiment, but a much smaller proportion acted on it.
“Carry me, big boy!” Rob called out. That made Derek blush, but he did. He took off his hockey sweater and swooped Rob up in his arms. The other players and the remaining girls whooped, then got involved in spinning the bottle for the last couple of remaining pairs.
He carried Rob to the showers, while Rob squirmed in his arms and nuzzled his thick biceps. He smelled of sweat and a bit of blood, mixed with the clean linoleum scent of the locker room. By the time they reached the shower, Rob’s hands had explored every inch of Derek’s biceps, and Rob’s dick was rapidly firming up in his pants.
Derek was much taller than Rob, and the individual shower stall they were in was so narrow that they had to squeeze into it. Rob felt like a midget in comparison with Derek. He licked his lips, unsure how to proceed, and just stroked his hands up Derek’s chest, beneath his t-shirt. Derek took the t-shirt off and flexed his pecs, whether to make Rob swoon or out of pure anxiety, Rob didn’t know. He kissed each nipple in turn.
“You don’t have to do anything…” Rob whispered as his hands cradled Derek’s ass. He pulled down Derek’s pants and played with both plump cheeks. “I’ll tell them it’s a secret what we do in here. It’s no big deal-“
“Have you put it in his ass yet?”
“Hope you have the common courtesy to give him a reacharound, Derek!”
“Yeah, you don’t look like the kind of man who’d refuse to give a reacharound! He deserves it!”
It sounded like the girls were barely even doing anything to their men (except maybe Megan, who hadn’t spoken since going in her shower stall, and was probably sucking dick — she was just as big of a slut as her friends said). They enjoyed catcalling out to Derek, who blushed but remained quiet.
Derek sighed and shrugged. “I’ll do it… I promised,” he said. He looked hopefully towards the other shower stalls. “Just tell them I’m cool.”
Rob felt a pang of pity for him. It was hard for Rob to understand how girls didn’t eat Derek up with a spoon, but he knew they didn’t. Derek was entirely too buff and big and crude, and not at all suave. He stood there awkwardly fumbling with his own underwear, which he dropped, revealing a thick, hoggish prick.
“You’ll do what…?” Rob asked.
Derek sighed and blushed. “Whatever…”
Rob decided to take this as far as he could. It seemed Derek really wanted to impress the girls. Rob pulled out his dick and stroked it alongside Derek’s. Derek reacted like Rob’s dick was made of poison ivy. He spasmed and looked away, holding his breath and closing his eyes.
“Will you tell Megan I’m hot?”
“She can see you, sweetie. She doesn’t need me to fill her in on that,” Rob said. As Rob listened Derek whisper about how desperate he was for pussy, he snuck his hand past Derek’s jockstrap. A surge of desire ran up Rob’s spine as Derek’s dick spasmed in his hand. Poor boy must be awfully horny, Rob thought, you could feel it in the veiny throbbing of his cock.
“I just… I know she’ll fuck me, I just can’t figure out why she hasn’t done it yet. She likes hockey players, right? Everyone said she’ll fuck any hockey player.”
Rob didn’t know how to tell him that Megan liked handsome, charming dudes. She liked it when guys had smooth lines to give her, she hated chest hair, and she didn’t like guys who were so much taller than her. Derek looked like a bully even if he was nicer than he seemed to be, and his faded acne scars made him look older than he really was. He reminded Megan of her grandfather, who had a craggy face like a windswept sailor, and for Megan, that was not a turnoff.
“Ah, god, yes, f-” That was Megan, Rob guessed from the voice. She cut herself off and giggled nervously as her friends called her a slut all over again. She was probably the only one having actual sex, Rob suspected.
She was like that.
Rob put a hand on Derek’s shoulder, the sweat clinging there melting into his soul and making Rob dizzy with desire. Some of the girls were either showering with their hockey player or making their player shower before getting started. Rob wanted to feel up Derek’s muscles, which quivered nervously at his touch, and when he got to Derek’s shoulders, Derek finally stopped complaining about women.
Derek sighed and rolled his eyes. He sunk to his knees as though Rob was telling him to jerk him off — which Rob would have done if he thought Derek would agree. Rob had to suppress a gasp when he realized Derek was going to do it.
He had a thick shock of black hair that was matted to his head with post-game sweat. Rob gripped that magnificent mane as Derek, stooping to reach Rob’s crotch in the tiny shower, opened his mouth and hesitated.
Then he took Rob’s dick in his mouth, all in one smooth motion, like he’d done it before. Rob was shocked at how forward he was. He had never thought he’d get this hockey player to even touch his dick much less taste it.
In no time, Rob was rock-hard, dick rampaging in Derek’s mouth. Derek gagged when Rob’s cock hit his throat, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even seem to mind the taste all that much, he was simply unpracticed at deep-throating, so he gagged each time Rob’s dick hit his gullet. Each time it sent a wave of pleasure coursing through Rob’s veins, and Rob held his sweat-soaked head tight;y in place.
“Ram his throat, Derek. He loves that!”
“Throat him down, like a pu-uuuuuusssy!” That was Megan. She was saying pussy as an impression of some stupid movie about how women are right about everything, including how to say ‘pussy’. Or maybe someone she knew, Rob had no idea.
Rob smiled. It seemed the girls assumed that Derek would refuse to bottom. Rob whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ll tell them you just let me give you a handjob, okay?”
Derek nodded, those big dumb player eyes twinkling as he deep-throated Rob. Rob’s dick pulsated in his throat as he forced his dick in as deep as he could. Rob daggered his hips into Derek, moaning as he felt that awkward tongue licking up and down his shaft.
Intense sensations rocked Rob’s spine. He gasped as he gripped Derek’s messy black mane tighter, using the big player’s body for support as his own knees weakened. Rob licked his lips. Derek was wedged against the wall of the shower by Rob’s petite body.
Then Derek stood. He gagged again after removing Rob’s dick from his mouth, and he had a sour look on his face. He frowned and choked before pulling a pubic hair out of his mouth. Rob’s dick pulsated angrily, demanding more attention, Rob wished he would have kept going but he wasn’t too surprised — he certainly couldn’t expect Derek to swallow his nut.
He was about to offer to jerk Derek off next, but much to his surprise, Derek turned around. He was so tall that his ass lined up with Rob’s belly. Rob spread those cheeks, wondering if Derek wanted a rimjob or if he was really asking to be rammed — he had to assume it was the former. Mouthing a man off was one thing, but Derek wouldn’t allow himself to be penetrated, would he?
Either way though, Rob figured he should start with a quick rimjob. He bet Derek had never had one before, and if he did want to get rammed, that would be the only lube they had available. He dived face-first into that funky asscrack.
Judging from the way Derek’s body stiffened and he jumped, startled, Rob realized with a shock that in fact Derek had been expecting to get rammed. Rob’s heart pounded as he realized he was going to get to top this gigantic hockey stud.
But first he needed to open that tight asshole up. Rob lapped at the man’s crack, sucking up all the post-hockey game grime, and he slurped, noisily and moistly, his whole way up and down Derek’s asscrack.. The few pads he had not taken off in the locker room were on the floor now, and Rob had to step on the soaked cotton to get his face into those juicy cheeks.
His tongue pressed into Derek’s ass, which was thick and hairy and choked with clean, fresh sweat. It was so salty and sour it rather tasted like cum already, just without the creamy texture. Derek grunted and shook as though he was shocked that the rimjob felt good, and he let out a pained grunt that turned into a moan of desire. When Rob reached around Derek’s body to handle his cock, it was already rock-hard.
The smell of ice from the rink filled Rob’s senses, and he smelled the coppery blood that stained Derek’s sweater, the funk of his skates, the bitter, salty sweat that splattered on his lips every time he collided with another player on the ice. All of the flavors from the match remained on his skin, dripping into Rob’s waiting mouth.
His hands roamed up Derek’s broad back, caressing his muscles as they rippled. He had even had a few hairs there, which Rob adored — it was just the perfect amount of hair.
Feeling like he had to do something nice for Derek, Rob pulled out of his moist ass. “You know… you need to shave your back.”
“What? My back’s not hairy.”
“No, it’s not hairy, but there’s some hair here. It creeps around from your chest.”
“So? It’s barely noticeable.”
“Girls hate it, trust me. Megan won’t fuck you if you have even the slightest bit of hair on your back,” Rob said. “Get a friend to shave it. Or… I’ll give you my phone number. I’ll jerk you off and shave your back anytime you want.”
“Okay-“
“I mean that, Derek. Any time you want,” Rob said with a giggle. Derek was looking behind his back at Rob, who reached around to casually stroke Derek’s dick. It pulsated like an alien beast in his grasp.
“Okay, thanks,” Derek said. He sighed. “Girls are picky.”
“Uh-huh” Rob said with a sloppy-faced grin. “You have to lower yourself now. Get lower so I can get to your ass.”
Derek crouched on his knees so his ass was low enough for Rob to reach with his dick. He took up almost the entire shower stall, so Rob had to squeeze into position behind him. He got the tip of his dick lined up with Derek’s asshole, and he lightly fingered the rim to make sure it was good and open.
“Two minutes, sluts! Rob, you better finish up!”
Rob had forgotten this game was called “Seven Minutes in Heaven”. He hurried up and rammed the tip of his dick into Derek’s ass as soon as he heard that, and Derek raised his head, his whole body tensing up at the same time.
Derek squealed and moaned, but bit his lip to avoid making too much noise. His entire body quaked as he struggled to accept Rob’s dick. Rob rather suspected that he had assumed Rob’s dick would be small because Rob was not large, but nothing could be further from the truth. Rob was significantly bigger than average, so his dick spent pangs of pain up Derek’s spine. Derek had had a surprised look on his face when he first saw it, but when he felt it inside him, he looked so shocked his face might fall off.
He assumed that Derek wouldn’t be able to get hard with a dick in his ass, but when Rob reached around him, he discovered that wasn’t true. He had to stretch to get there and stroke off Derek’s throbbing dick through the messy tangle of the man’s (curly) pubic hairs. Ecstasy erupted in both men simultaneously, arising first in Rob’s body as he thrust then seemingly transferred to Derek’s by Rob’s cock colliding with his sensitive prostate.
By the time he had just barely begun jacking him off, Rob felt his own orgasm approach. The sensation was so intense he had to bite his lip to avoid crying out loudly. It was like an echo reverberating in his body, beginning in his ass and moving in waves up and down Rob’s tiny frame.
Incredible pleasure shot through his muscles. Rob gripped Derek’s strapping back with his free hand, while his other stroked hard, sending Derek into throes of his own orgasm. They both rocked and shook there, Derek barely fitting into Rob’s thin, weak arms.
Hot cum dripped from Derek’s ass, but he didn’t pull away — or maybe just couldn’t in the tiny shower stall — so Rob stayed there. He enjoyed the feel of Derek’s dick spasming in sync with the clenching of his ass, and Rob’s dick sent a new shockwaves of pleasure running through both his own and Derek’s body with each tiny motion. Every time either one of them moved even a bit, Derek’s body vibrated in agonized bliss all over again.
It wasn’t much later that Derek shot his load into Rob’s hand. He gasped and furtively moaned. He sprayed a big wad, much of which ended up on the floor, but the rest dripped from Rob’s hands. The texture was creamy and vibrant, milky white in color, and the smell of cum filled the air.
Finally, that was it, they were done. Rob pulled out as Derek shot the last of his cumwad onto the shower floor. D erek breathed a deep sigh of relief. The other couples squealed and giggled in the other stalls.
“Why are Rob and Derek so quiet? Think they fell in love?!”
And then Paula, always the organized one, called out that the seven minutes were up. Megan — who had ruffled, just-fucked hair and smeared makeup — hurried to the shower stall that Rob and Derek were in, and she flung open the curtain as though hoping to walk in on something compromising. Her gleeful smile turned to a frown at the sight of both men casually getting dressed.
“What?” Derek asked.
“I just gave him a handie,” Rob said. “Not a big deal. He’s got the perfect-sized dick, by the way. Absolutely perfect.” He smiled and slapped Derek’s rumbling ass. “He’ll make you feel so good your pussy will fall off.”

The Sumo Wrestler Bottoms

Bart is in Japan when he gets the chance to punish an alpha male sumo wrestler. Yoshimuzi will do whatever it takes to regain his honor, even if that means bending over and taking what Bart’s got to give!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Bart worked for the Bank of Ibaraki nowadays, a small regional bank that sponsored a sumo wrestler named Yoshizumi. The Bank of Ibaraki had been trying to open a Hawaiian branch for years. Bart was helping them out with IT services related to that, but it required him to come to Japan to get to know their services and systems.
So when a major sumo tournament needed a last-minute IT person to come troubleshoot the web streaming, the Bank of Ibaraki had loaned Bart for a day. It seemed like just a free day away from his annoying coworkers and cruel boss.
But when he got there, it wasn’t a day off by any means. There was a lot of work to be done and nobody who could do anything about it but Bart. There were some major problems with the code that protected the web stream, and it wasn’t easy to fix. It took him eighteen hours of constant work and reinstallation of several complex modules, but he got the webstreaming up at the last possible moment. An executive was about to call the television studio to tell them to prepare something else, when Bart finally got the feed going. Bart had been worried he’d shame himself, possibly even get fired — the Bank of Ibaraki did not tolerate failure lightly — so when he realized it was working again, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“You have done good, Bart-san.”
“You have acquitted yourself with honor.”
Not only was he treated as a hero, he was allowed to watch the tournament with executives from the Bank of Ibaraki. They congratulated him and bowed so low to the ground it made him nervous. He knew a lot of sumo tournaments had yakuza connections, which made him wonder how he would have been punished if he failed. The yakuza did not tolerate failure lightly.
Was the Bank of Ibaraki a legitimate bank? Bart was unsure. They weren’t illegitimate — they had real customers, real deposits, real loans, and they received real payments. But Bart couldn’t know how much, if any, of their system was based on crime. It was possible most of the bank’s funds were the proceeds of crime.
“You must be proud of your success. You have saved the tournament for us all,” said the bank executive who showed him to the ritzy box where he could watch the action up close. Bart had no real desire to watch a sumo match, but he wasn’t about to turn it down.
He’d never seen a sumo match before, but he had long had a preference for big and fat men, and sumo wrestlers were among the most arousing. Perhaps their best quality, Bart thought, was not just their thick, heavy, expansive bodies but the powerful muscle they had underneath all that flab.
Really, Bart thought, sumo wrestlers were ideal specimens of man.
Bart nodded to the bank executive and acknowledged his success. He was careful not to appear arrogant about it, and he spoke of the simplicity of the problem. It was time-consuming to fix, he said, but not difficult. He did not explain that it was only a problem because the people who had originally coded the database did a poor job of it — if these people were yakuza-connected, Bart didn’t want to get his predecessors in trouble. Besides, he couldn’t explain what was wrong with the database without getting into a lot of technical details, and he could tell at a glance that this executive would zone out and fail to comprehend basically any of it.
Business executives were pretty much morons.
In the end, Yoshizumi Gagatsu lost, which was anticlimactic — after the Bank of Ibaraki saved the day technology-wise, Bart greatly hoped their sponsored wrestler would win. It seemed thematically inappropriate for Yoshizumi to lose, like Bart deserved to have an all-win day because he had won. He knew that was irrational, he wasn’t owed a positive day.
It just made his own success seem less impressive. Anyway though, he didn’t sulk.
He lingered after the tournament because he didn’t want to wade through the crowds or the traffic. The bank executives had hurried away as soon as they could. According to a conversation he half-overheard, they were going to the locker room He suspected they were planning on scolding Yoshizumi, maybe even punishing him. They had stern looks on their faces. Bart was glad he hadn’t disappointed them — those rumored yakuza connections were credible and frightening. They didn’t suffer failure gladly.
Then a tall man with a broad-barrel craggy body appeared. He bowed and said, “You are the man they call ‘Bart Dazzle’, yes?”
“Yes…”
“Please come with me. Yoshizumi would like to see you.” He turned without waiting for a response.
Bart followed nervously. He now recognized the craggy man as Kazuya Ito, Yoshizumi’s coach (which was called an oyakata, who, like they usually were, was himself a retired sumo wrestler). The oyakata led Bart to the locker room, which was behind the wrestling arena. He held the door open and motioned for Bart to enter, but he did not follow him in. Bart’s heart pounded as he entered.
What am I in for? Oh god they’re going to execute me, I know too much!
The locker room was cold and sterile, and it reeked of cleaning fluid. Bart actually preferred a messier locker room that smelled of manhood, but he wasn’t about to complain. He just went in.
Yoshizumi was there, his round body trembling as he scrubbed the floors. The flab covering his bulging muscles shook, the loincloth-like mawashi belt barely concealing the sweat and pubic hair beneath. Bart felt an onrush of intense and nearly uncontrollable desire. He had always adored champion sumo wrestlers (sekitori) like Yoshizumi. Right now, however, Yoshizumi lacked in confidence and swagger because he lost and had no doubt been scolded by his bosses. Now he had been reduced to scrubbing the sweat of his fellow wrestlers off the floor, wrinkling his nose at the salty, astringent odor that filled the air. His heavyset body jiggled, muscles flexing under all his mass, as he scrubbed at the floor. Yoshizumi frowned when he saw Bart.
“You are Bart?” Yoshizumi looked at Bart as though not comprehending the tiny gaijin’s presence. This was not the kind of tournament that saw a lot of outside visitors.
“Yes.”
“You are the computer man? You fixed the tournament, yes? You made the Internet work again.”
“That’s right,” he said.
“You are good at your job. I have failed today. I have brought shame upon myself,” he said. He stood and hung his head. His pecs flexed beneath his layer of fat — Bart could see his huge muscles beating under all his sumo-trained flesh. Bart would have gladly dropped to his knees and jerked him off right here and now.
But that seemed unlikely to be something Yoshizumi would agree to.
“Uh… Well, I’m sure you did your best,” Bart said. His eyes were drawn to that mawashi belt and the dark crevices behind the waist, where he could almost see the man’s bare cockroot. Bart blushed as he tried to avoid being too obvious about it.
“It was not good enough,” he said. “I must excise my shame. I will regain my honor. I am sorry to have let down my benefactors.” He hung his head. Bart got the impression he was repeating words that had been told to him, that he was told to have this conversation with Bart.
“Oh, okay-” Bart wanted to explain to Yoshizumi that he didn’t need to feel that bad. It was just a wrestling match. There would be more. Of course, if Yoshizumi disappointed the yakuza of Clan Rairaku, he was in for a world of punishment, so maybe he was right to feel bad. Or maybe he had thrown the match and felt guilty about it.
That seemed unlikely. Bart knew the Japanese had a strong ethic about sportsmanship, and Yoshizumi sure looked like he gave it his all out there. Bart sensed the disappointment greatly within him, like Yoshizumi thought he could have won if he had tried harder.
But Bart was too horny to think how to reassure him, and Yoshizumi seemed to think regaining his honor would be what made him feel better.
“You are wanting to do it, yes?” Yoshizumi asked, his heavy brow furrowed. He glared at Bart.
“Do it? Do what?,” Bart said.
“I will have jack off. You want jack off? I will do whatever you want, so as to regain the gathering of my honor.” Yoshizumi’s tone was a mix of hope and dread, as though a part of him wanted Bart to say no and another part was terrified he would refuse.
“What?” Bart thought for sure he had misunderstood. But then Yoshizumi repeated his request. Bart’s heart skipped a beat.
“It will remove shame from my heart,” he said. He blushed and dropped the mawashi he still wore. His cock dangled low and heavy, nice and long, beckoning for Bart to come closer. Yoshizumi’s big body trembled. “Come now. I must do as you order me to. What will you have me do?”
“Well… You really want to jack off with me?”
“Yes. It is necessary to restore honor,” he said. “I must allow myself to service one who is a winner, one who can teach me victory. I am a loser, Bart.” He leaned forward and kissed Bart on the lips, his tongue pushing into Bart’s mouth. “I do not know how to do butt jacking off. You must be having to tell me.” His English had grown more halting now, as he became more nervous.
Bart smiled as a thrill of desire ran through him. He hadn’t thought this quick-and-dirty IT job would turn into some outrageous sumo rough-trade. He blushed and touched Yoshizumi’s bare belly, caressing the soft, worn flesh of his torso.
Though there was, of course, plenty of padding there, Bart was shocked at the amount of muscle as well. The fat barely covered it up. Yoshizumi would have been a musclegod if he lost all that fat — which Bart was glad he hadn’t done. Bart sucked a few beads of sweat off his bellybutton, making Yoshizumi chortle wordlessly, nervously, his body jiggling above Bart’s head.
His flesh was warm and bready, and Bart let himself squeeze into it as he shoved his tongue into Yoshizumi’s mouth. Then he moved down his body, and he slurped the sweat off Yoshizumi’s massive torso. His bellyfat jiggled. Yoshizumi either grunted or groaned or maybe even moaned, or maybe he was ticklish and he laughed when Bart touched him, but any way, when Bart looked up, Yoshizumi was stonefacing as though nothing had happened. His dick twitched though, visible through the trembling of the loincloth-like mawashi that he still wore.
Bart rammed his hand into Yoshizumi’s mawashi, which made the big man blanche. He winced and his muscles all flexed as though he had an instinctual urge to fight Bart. Instead he sighed as his dick flopped loosely between Bart’s fingers.
It was a big, thick dick, uncut and warm, moist with sweat and throbbing in Bart’s grasp. He loved a magnificent manhood, and this was one Bart couldn’t wait to taste. But he wanted to get it hard first, and he wanted to see how far he could take this. What exactly had Yoshizumi been told to do? As Bart began stroking it, Yoshizumi’s dick swelled and pulsated beneath his grasp. Yoshizumi had suggested he would do whatever Bart told him to do. Bart wasn’t sure if he meant that literally or not, but he fully intended to push Yoshizumi to the limit.
“Will you put my dick in your mouth?” Bart asked. His voice sounded weak and frail in this locker room, which had an aura of power and machismo.
Bart wondered how many sumo wrestlers had jacked off together here before. He wished he had been around after every tournament. Though the locker room was clean and smelled of soap, he sensed beneath that the smell of sweat and bamboo, cloying and thick in the air. Manhood reeked through the lockers and soaked into the floors. The clean surfaces were only superficial, whereas Bart savored the filth.
Yoshizumi frowned but nodded his head. He sunk to his knees, but Bart directed him to lay on his back. The folds of his substantial belly jiggled as he got into position. He lay on a clean mat in an open area — apparently meant for pre-match stretching — in the back of the locker room. Outside, Bart could hear the hustle and bustle of the audience as they filed out into the parking lot; it was exciting, to hear the public just a few feet away, even if there was a wall of solid concrete keeping him protected from sight.
“I will get you off too,” Bart said. He glanced at Yoshizumi for a response, but Yoshizumi said nothing.
His horniness was so intense that Bart could do little more than repeat himself, hoping Yoshizumi wouldn’t say no or leave. But Yoshizumi looked like he had no choice and was resigned to this encounter.
Bart thought sixty-nining would be a good way to get him a little excited about it. Bart realized only at the last moment that Yoshizumi’s huge size was going to make it difficult to get into position. He certainly couldn’t mount Yoshizumi’s entire body. Even if Yoshizumi were a normal size, he was much too thick for Bart’s tiny frame.
“Yes that is good okay for certainly,” Yoshizumi said, gasping, spit dripping from his lips. He sounded like he was much too distracted to remember English grammar. “We will do it in sixty-nine style.” He laid on his back.
Bart had to bend his slim frame over that bulging gut, which he gripped like a liferaft as he reached for Yoshizumi’s cock. That was a somewhat awkward position for Bart, but it was also exactly what he wanted — it felt like he was making love to that powerful sumo belly itself. He draped himself over it and let the fresh, clean sweat there mingle with his own.
Once they were both in position, Yoshizumi swallowed Bart’s dick, his big throat stretching to accommodate it. He gagged when it hit his tongue but that didn’t slow him down any, and the sound of his choked sputtering even sounded somewhat desirous, as though he had learned to appreciate the salty manliness of Bart’s cock. Warmth suffused Bart’s body, and he moaned even before they had begun.
“Oh, yes, Yoshizumi…”
Bart licked Yoshizumi’s dick from root to tip, his own body trembling as he got hard right away. The fat and muscle beneath him quivered with a mixture of desire and anxiety, which made Yoshizumi’s cock also rocket right to full erection. Eventually he moaned around Bart’s dick and seemed to forget that he had been unwilling to keep going.
Soon they were both rock-hard and leaking precum, while Yoshizumi loudly suckled, sputtering and letting occasional aggressive gag. Bart’s balls slammed against Yoshizumi’s face.
When he felt his orgasm approach, Bart knew he needed to stop. He didn’t want this to be over so soon, and it was obvious that Yoshizumi did not wish to swallow his cum. Bart desperately wanted to do so, but he had a better idea. He thought he could get Yoshizumi to take this even farther.
Then Bart stood, pulling his dick out of Yoshizumi’s cock. His orgasm receded just in time, and pained frustration flowed up Bart’s body. He forced himself to be still, and he smiled at Yoshizumi, who winced and nodded his agreement — he knew what was coming next.
Bart’s long dick pulsated as he got excited thinking about how this was going to feel; it was exactly a fantasy he had had since he was a little boy watching sumo matches on TV. Yoshizumi was even more handsome than any of the sumo wrestlers he had seen back then, or maybe Yoshizumi wasn’t more handsome, he just seemed more real because he was right in front of Bart’s face.
Yoshizumi’s ass was twice as wide as Bart’s body, so Bart felt like even more of a slim young twink than ever. He had to stand on his toes to get into Yoshizumi’s ass from the right angle. It took both hands to separate his asscheeks, baring his tight hole.
When he did succeed, however, he moaned exquisitely. Pleasure flowed up his body with just the first inch of his dick in that tight ass — beneath the thick layer of pudge, Yoshizumi’s ass was strong and hard. Bart struggled to separate those mountainous asscheeks far enough, and his fingers clutched the man’s hairy crack-flesh. It was almost enough to send him over the edge, especially when Yoshizumi’s cheeks involuntarily flexed. He was so powerful beneath the flab that it was like his ass had gripped Bart’s manhood and fingers.
“You have to loosen up, Yoshizumi. Just relax. I will not hurt you, and you are so much bigger than me it will not hurt much. You can tell me to stop if it is too much,” Bart said.
Yoshizumi nodded his understanding but didn’t say anything. He gritted his teeth and averted his eyes from Bart’s gaze. H was on his belly now, so he just looked down to the floor of the locker room he had just cleaned and buried his face in his forearm.
He grunted as he accepted Bart’s dick. He bit his lip, trying to avoid showing his pain, and then a flush of red hit his face. That suggested to Bart that he felt a surge of pleasure as well, but was probably too insecure right now to admit it. Bart could feel the man’s spongy prostate tingling as he stimulated it, and he could practically see the pleasure through the rippling of Yoshizumi’s flesh.
While Bart began fucking harder and harder, he reached around Yoshizumi’s body the best he could. He wasn’t surprised to find that he couldn’t give a reacharound as he intended. His arms weren’t even remotely close to long enough. Yoshizumi’s powerful belly was in the way. Bart enjoyed trying though, straining to reach all the way around that massive frame of quivering muscular flesh.
“If you lay on your back, I’ll jack you off,” Bart said. “I can’t reach from here.”
He shook his head. “I do not deserve to feel pleasure.”
“Nonsense, of course you do. You made a little mistake, Yoshizumi, relax. Besides, you said you would do what you needed to, in order to please me, right? Well I wanna jack you off while I stick it in you. That’s what’ll please me.”
Yoshizumi nodded then. Bart pulled out as Yoshizumi’s giant body flipped over. He lifted his legs up. Ordinarily, Bart would hold a man’s legs up while fucking him in this position, but each of Yoshizumi’s legs probably weighed more than Bart. He was obviously not going to be able to hold them in place.
But luckily since Yoshizumi was such an athlete, he had plenty of muscle. He could keep his legs elevated for a very long time, his outrageous thigh muscles thick like corded rope beneath his layer of fat. He winced again as Bart re-penetrated him but his moan turned from pain to pleasure when Bart grabbed his dick.
He was already hard, and he resumed leaking precum the moment Bart began to stroke him. With every thrust of Bart’s dick, Yoshizumi’s flab trembled, his giant muscles flexed, his ass clenched and his dick spasmed beneath Bart’s fingers.
“Oh god yes, thank you, I feel better already,” Yoshizumi said, his voice still tight and pinched. It was clear that he was in pain, but from his tone and the way his cock pulsated in Bart’s fingers, it was clear he felt a deep, abiding pleasure as well.
Mister Gogatsu?! boomed a deep voice from the other end of the locker room. It was a man, who sounded stern, authoritarian, and a bit uneasy.
“Yes!” Yoshizumi said, calling out as loud as he could muster while he was in pain. Bart froze mid-penetration, his blood running cold as he wondered if Yoshizumi would get kicked out of the league if they were caught.
Are you done? You are requested again in the executive suite.
“No, I’m doing it now. I promise. Come see and you will know-“
No. I do not wish to see. I will report to the bosses that you will be upstairs shortly. Do not disappoint.
“Yes, Gakimosimi-san,” Yoshizumi said. He frowned until the locker room door slammed shut. Then he breathed a sigh of relief. “That was an enforcer for Clan Rairaku. They… own my contract,” he said.
Vicarious fear ran through Bart’s spine. If he had been thinking clearly, he would have realized that that man was yakuza, come to check that Yoshizumi was satisfying his debt of shame. The yakuza were terrifying, and Bart was glad he hadn’t known that’s what was going on at the time or he would have fled.
But now they were alone again, and Bart began plowing harder and harder at Yoshizumi’s powerful behind. Since Yoshizumi’s ass was so big, Bart had no problem slamming his rod in all the way in and out. It didn’t cause Yoshizumi too much pain, and though he was tight, he was too big for his tightness to be a problem.
Intense pleasure rocketed through Bart’s body. His back arched as he plunged his dick in and out. There was so much to Yoshizumi’s body that Bart felt like he was ensconced in the man’s rolling drapes of flesh. He even had a perfect amount of chest hair, a lot for a Japanese man..
Fat rolls rippled above Yoshizumi’s muscular frame, and the big man moaned with pleasure. He began feeling up his own nipples with one hand. Bart used both of his hands on Yoshizumi’s thick dick, which was veiny and bulgy, cum coursing through it as they both writhed together.
“I’m going to cum! Oh god!”
They both shot their loads at the same time, Bart just a minute or two before Yoshizumi. Intense, indescribable pleasure wafted through his body as he sprayed his load within Yoshizumi’s plump ass. Yoshizumi moaned, a cringing sound that suggested both agony and bliss.
Then cum sprayed over Bart’s hand and Yoshizumi’s jiggling belly. It coated Bart’s fingers as Yoshizumi’s entire body shook and vibrated. He gasped, cursing in surprise at how powerful his orgasm was. Wave after wave of pleasure rampaged through his body, as Yoshizumi experienced a potent climax.
Few women had ever brought him to such pleasure, making Yoshizumi’s whole body jiggle and shake. Yoshizumi gasped. He tried to remain staid and nonplussed, but Yoshizumi couldn’t handle the intense feelings rollicking him. No woman could make him feel like that, he thought with a chest-rattling sigh.
His cumwad was thick and creamy, and it seemed to go on forever.
Bart smiled as he pulled out and licked all the cum off his fingers. It tasted clean and vibrant, like a mossy forest, and he moaned with the aftershocks of his orgasm. Yoshizumi’s massive body loomed before him like a colossus, and Bart let his tongue wrap around Yoshizumi’s folds. He sucked on his big meaty nipples.
“I thank you, Bart,” Yoshizumi said. His face was red, a smile creeping over his face as he grasped Bart on the shoulder. The sensations roiling through his body were too potent to ignore, so his voice rattled and broke. “You have allowed me to regain my honor.”
“Anytime,” Bart said. “I love sumo.” He smiled and pulled away. He sighed before putting his clothes on. He was suddenly glad he had come to Japan and especially glad he had fixed that webstream.
This was a wonderful country.

The KGB Officer

When Antonov gets arrested by the dreaded KGB, he didn’t know what he was in for. If he’s going to get out of this alive, he’ll have to do whatever Agent Gromov demands of him. Can Antonov make it?!

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Read the whole thing here!

A part of Antonov was glad that he was arrested. Of course another part was scared, but he had always known it was a possibility. It wasn’t a bad thing. It might bring a lot of attention to the cause, and it definitely signaled to the media that this was a real movement.
But Antonov wished that everyone got arrested, not just him.
At the time, it seemed great that Antonov was the only one who got arrested. It made him seem like the most serious activist, the one who would get the credit when or if this eventually worked. The police of Moscow were notoriously cruel, but he could handle a few weeks in prison. He was glad to do it to prove his devotion to the cause of spreading democracy in Russia.
Before his arrest, the protest went about as well as Antonov could have hoped. A lot of people showed up, and Antonov caused a big scene that got him arrested in front of all the television cameras. That made him seem like a big player in the movement now. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was offered an organizing job by one of the international organizations that had helped to set up the protest.
The adrenaline in his veins only died down when Antonov was led away from the police station proper and into a small, unmarked building next door to it. There, he was handcuffed to a chair in a large open office area. It was windowless, crowded with plainclothes men smoking cigarettes, and it stank of sweat and fear. Rowdy conversation dominated at the desks and in the conference rooms attached to the precinct floor.
On one side of the room, burly, hairy men in handcuffs were led into the jail that was near Antonov. From his vantage point, he could see down the hall and into the rows of cells when the door to the jail opened. In there, men sobbed out loud, and the sound of someone vomiting echoed out into the police station. There was the occasional sound of flesh on flesh — a fight, most likely, which none of the officers here seemed eager to stop. He shuddered in fear.
I shouldn’t have been so confident. The Moscow police aren’t just cruel and strict. They’re corrupt. They hurt people just to send a message to others.
Antonov gulped. That was one of the reasons he shouldn’t have been happy to be the only protester arrested — if lots of them had been arrested, the chances that any one would be beaten up to set an example for the others was minimal. If it was just Antonov, then they were going to treat him the way they wanted the protesters to fear they would be treated if arrested.
That’s when Antonov saw the sign on the door next to the one leading to the jail. He had to crane his head around to read it: ‘agents of the KGP only’ was printed in neat Cyrilic on the frosted door window. It surely didn’t mean anything that they handcuffed him to a chair near the KGP office.
His dread grew as he became more and more suspicious that he was indeed placed near the KGB door because that was where he was going, whenever they were ready. He watched the other officers bring men in, process them and take them into the jail in just a few minutes, and doing so did not involve handcuffing them to a chair.
So why was Antonov placed here?
His dread turned into quakes of fear when a man in a fine suit came out from the KGB door. He undid the handcuffs attaching Antonov to the chair, and he motioned, with a dour, flat face, for Antonov to come with him.
Stonefacing the best he could, Antonov followed instructions. He followed the officer — Gromov — into the KGP officer, where a dozen or so other men stood around as though they were waiting for Antonov. Antonov avoided eye contact with all of them.
The officer Gromov asked Antonov a litany of basic questions: name, birthdate, birthplace, how did you come to Moscow today? Antonov did not asnwer any of them aside from his name and birthdate. That was all they needed to know.
“Do you have any money?” asked Officer Gromov. “You have been assessed a fine for disorderly conduct and for acting in an inappropriate way in public. You have brought shame upon this country. So we are charging you a fine.” He and the others snickered, suggesting this fine was really a bribe. Officer Gromov would keep it all for himself. “You must pay it to me. Now.”
Antonov shook his head. “No way. I am a prisoner of conscience-“
“I do not care about that. You have a fine to pay. If you are too much of a deadbeat to pay now, you must have to work it off,” Officer Gromov said. His face remained stony, his broadly muscled body looming above and in front of Antonov. He unzipped the slacks of his suit, and he withdrew from the fly a fat uncircumcised cock. “Go on, put your mouth upon it,” Officer Gromov said.
“Protest that, weakling!”
Antonov shook his head. He didn’t think he could bring himself to taste a dick no matter what. He pursed his lips closed. Tears welled up in his eyes, but Antonov tried not to cry. He hoped the officers didn’t notice.
“Make him into your bitch, Gromov!” Someone threw a pair of dirty shoes at Antonov, old ragged shoes like they had been confiscated off a hobo . Antonov blushed and tried not to look at the other officers. He told himself he just needed to get out of this with Gromov. Ignore the others.
It was hard to ignore the pit of humiliation burning within though.
Officer Gromov smiled at him, and he laughed with the other KGB officers. That made Gromov’s cock jiggle and sway afront Antonov’s face.
The other officers scattered around the room leaned back in their seats and smoked their cigarettes, which filled the air with a haze and the bitter smell of imported tobacco. Antonov realized with a jolt of fear that they were expecting a show — they wanted Gromov to entertain them by making Antonov put his mouth on Gromov’s ugly, barbaric, veiny cock, which was bigger than any dick Antonov had ever seen. It was long and fleshy, and Gromov waved it around in front of Antonov’s face. It smelled like funk and sweat and semen and piss, and Antonov gagged at the thought of putting it in his mouth.
“You will not swallow it?”
“No way!” Antonov shouted. “I have the right to protest. You aren’t allowed to do this to me! I’m not your pussy!” He felt sure this would get him some respect — maybe they were just doing this as a test. Maybe he could earn Gromov’s respect by refusing to give in.
But the other officers sneered at him as though they had expected him to open up, and they peppered him with jeers and old sandwich wrappers from the garbage cans by their desks.
“You will be a pussy! You will be my pussy!” shouted Officer Gromov. He nodded for two younger KGB officers to come forward, and they took Antonov by the handcuffed arms and threw him against a wall. Antonov’s head collided with the wall, sending an onrush of pain down his body. He was dizzy, and he staggered back.
“Please, stop!” Antonov couldn’t believe this. He was supposed to be a martyr for the cause — he had expected to spend time in prison, not… this. Nobody would respect him for being arrested if it led to him being less of a man, being treated as Gromov’s whore.
Officer Gromov smiled as he played with his dick between his fingers. It was so big and meaty enough it almost hurt when he flopped it against Antonov’s face. Antonov realized that that must have been why these KGB officers had Officer Gromov do this — he had a huge cock. They had chosen the horse-cocked cop to teach a lesson to Antonov, who shook as he fought against his attackers.
“Make him your bitch!”
One of the KGB officers got behind Antonov and pinned his limbs, while the other gripped his nostrils until he couldn’t help but open his mouth. Then at least two KGB officers gripped his chin and cheeks, forcing his jaws apart. Tears streamed from Antonov’s eyes as Officer Gromov flopped his big uncut dick in front of Antonov’s face.
“Will you bite me? If you bite me, I will gut you like a dog,” Officer Gromov said. His beard jiggled as he spoke, and he licked his lips.
“Woof! Woof!” The other cops were acting like dogs now, on all fours and barking, growling, pawing at him like a feral canine.
“Yes! I’ll bite you, I don’t care what you do!” Antonov shouted out of pure instinct. Since his mouth was propped open, however, none of his words were clearly intelligible. Officer Gromov and the others seemed to get the gist of it though.
“I guess we’ll need to get the device,” Officer Gromov said with a laugh.
“The device! The face-rammer! The bitch-maker!”
Officer Gromov grinned at Antonov’s sweaty, reddened face, on which he wiped his greasy cockshaft. He didn’t seem to mind touching Antonov’s scruffy beard, as he wiped his dick over Antonov’s lips and cheeks. He didn’t stick it in, however, until another officer returned with a primitive looking dental device. They shoved it in his mouth, and sharp pincers prevented him from closing his mouth all the way. It was arduously painful, and it made Antonov choke.
As his jaw opened, the device didn’t let it close, so the more Antonov struggled, the more it hurt. Eventually he could do nothing but fall limp. It felt like his jaw was on the verge of shattering, and Antonov didn’t want to fight back for fear of actually breaking it.
“Open it!”
“Pay that fine, bitch!”
“If you can not pay me, you will be my oral bitch, my mouth slut,” Officer Gromov said with a sneer. He flexed his biceps beneath his tight-fitting suit. He spat into Antonov’s open mouth, dark eyes drilling into Antonov’s — he tried to close his eyes, but they pinched his nipples until he opened them. “Look me in the eye when I pluck your manhood.”
His dick pushed right past Antonov’s lips, and when Antonov tasted the sweaty, coppery taste, he gagged profusely. He sputtered, unable to even spit because of all the KGB officers holding him down and the device keeping his mouth open.
That meant that the fluids generated by Officer Gromov’s throating splashed and frothed, spilling over the sides of Antonov’s lips and coating his face. Antonov retched loudly with each stab of Officer Gromov’s massive meat down his gullet.
“Make him your bitch! Make him your cockpig!”
The taste was even worse than Antonov had thought it would be. It was like an old gym sock that had both stale and fresh sweat soaked into it. The flavor of precum was even worse, salty and sour. It made Antonov’s throat cringe.
“See what this is? This is a deadbeat. This is how we treat deadbeats.”
Antonov couldn’t see who said that, but he could hear a wave of rough, lower-class men bursting into a mix of laughter, rage and terror. The officers must have brought other criminals into this room. His eyes were blinded by the spit the officers kept plopping onto his face, but he could tell they were using him as a lesson for other criminals. He was being used this way to scare others into paying their fines — or their bribes, or both, as it often seemed there was no difference between a fine and a bribe in Soviet Russia.
Officer Gromov pumped his hips, slamming his cock into the back of Antonov’s throat. He cackled as Antonov choked.
“You’re no man anymore,” Officer Gromov said, and the other KGB officers laughed along with him.
“Choke on it, weakling!”
Then he gripped Antonov by the hair and violently throated him, with no pause — he slammed his hips in, grinding his dick deep into Antonov’s throat like he wanted to make Antonov retch as violently as possible. A painful wretch escaped from Antonov’s mouth. He choked and sputtered. His balls slammed against Antonov’s beard, leaving a layer of filthy sweat and sac-hairs clinging to Antonov’s furry chin.
“Fine, I’ll pay! I’ll pay! I’ll pay both fines!”
The other criminals were falling all over themselves to pay up now. Antonov could hear the KGB officers laughing at it as they collected money. Antonov realized then that he wasn’t even blocked from view from the outside. Anyone who walked by the building and looked through the window would be able to see that something was happening. They wouldn’t be able to see Antonov’s face easily, but they might have figured out who it was.
In any case, with a dozen KGB agents and probably just as many criminals and local cops, somebody was no doubt going to identify Antonov. Everybody was going to know about this, and Antonov would never be able to live it down. He thought he would never feel clean again.
His nose pressed into Officer Gromov’s hairy crotch. It stank and Antonov’s lungs cried out for air. He writhed, trying to escape the grip of the KGB officers holding him down — he was surprised to see that they didn’t care about getting Officer Gromov’s precum onto them. Great wads of spit and precum plopped out of Antonov’s mouth over and over, landing on the other KGB officers’s hands, arms, chest and even face — none of them seemed to notice. All they cared about was making sure Antonov swallowed every inch of rampaging dickmeat.
When Officer Gromov finally pulled his cock out and even took that device off so Antonov could breathe, all Antonov could do was cough up a slimy ball of spit that landed on the ground. Then his whole body undulated as he gagged up again and again, until his throat was sore. The onlookers — police officers, KGB agents and arrested criminals alike — all laughed and shouted jeers, but Antonov didn’t hear their words. His attention was focused on his cringing humiliation and the suffocating agony in his chest.
“Beg him, boy! Beg him to go easy on you!”
Through his tear-clouded eyes, Antonov saw that there was a criminal snickering as he walked past Antonov. A bunch more waited to be processed, or they might have even been recent releasees who were invited to watch Antonov’s ruination. They all looked at him like they both pitied and despised him, like a stray dog they were about to beat to death.
“You deadbeat, you can not pay your fines,” Officer Gromov said, for the benefit of the criminals — so they’d know how to avoid this same fate. He clucked his tongue against his teeth and flopped his rock-hard cock onto Antonov’s face. “Kiss it.”
Antonov blushed but did as he was told. He kissed the cockshaft on his face, which made him gag in both disgust and humiliation. He felt it pulsating with his tongue on the veiny shaft.
Then at Officer Gromov’s direction, Antonov said through his gasps and tears, “Your cock… is superior… to mine. I worship your meat, Officer Gromov… I will never disobey your cock!”
“Filthy bitch! Disgusting pitiful little maggot!”
Then, with Antonov still heaving for air, Officer Gromov pried his mouth apart again. The other KGB officers held Antonov’s squirming body down until he could not resist parting his lips once again. Every fiber of Antonov’s being told him to fight.
But he could do little more than writhe. He wanted to bite down, but he wasn’t sure he could even do that with men holding his mouth open — in any case, he knew the punishment would be severe and would almost certainly end in his death. The dental device was on the floor now, but Antonov knew he wouldn’t bite. After losing any respect he might have had, there was no point in fighting back now. They’d beat him, and Antonov would still be known as a man’s bitch.
So he just submitted. He opened his mouth as wide as it could go, and he sobbed as that salty rod of meat pushed down his throat again. He loudly gagged, which made the KGB officers all cheer. One of them even scooped up all the spit and precum that dripped off Antonov’s chin and smeared it over Antonov’s face.
“Open your eyes,” Officer Gromov barked. He didn’t give Antonov a chance to do it, he simply pulled Antonov’s eyelids apart. “I want to see your manhood drain away as I fill it up with my cum.” He laughed and spat on Antonov, again and again, plopping huge stinky loogeys all over Antonov’s sobbing face.
Antonov’s head swam after Officer Gromov punched him in the gut. He was too dizzy to resist as he was led to a table in the center of the KGB office. A bunch of intake papers were shoved off the table and onto the floor, while Antonov’s pants were torn down.
That left his ass bare.
“You will be pussy, bitch!”
“Make him your whore!”
“No!” Antonov screamed and panted, desperate for oxygen now that his mouth was empty. But he couldn’t bare to have his asshole rammed, he thought. He’d rather kill himself. “Please, don’t! I have a wife, and sons!”
“Your sons will have no father,” Officer Gromov said. He lifted Antonov’s feet in the air, baring his cheeks and forcing them apart. “Just a bitch for a second mother.”
“They will weep to be sired by such a bitch! We will make sure they know! We will make sure your neighbors know!”
Then a flood of pain hit Antonov’s ass as Officer Gromov’s cock pushed into him. Antonov screamed so loud it could be heard throughout the building, and the inmates there, those who weren’t brought to watch, variously either shivered in fear or stood with great interest to see if they could catch a glimpse of the ramrodding in-progress. They all knew the kinds of things the KGB did to protesters.
His dick tore and ripped into Antonov’s ass, and Antonov squirmed beneath the muscular, uniformed arms of the other officers. More and more KGB officers had come to watch, and now the hallway was choked with men in suits and police uniforms, leering and screaming, some of them even masturbating as they watched.
“Ram him! Ram him, Gromov! Make him your bitch!”
“You like that cock? You want to protest that? Protest away, bitch!”
All of a sudden another wad of cum appeared on Antonov’s face, then another. He couldn’t believe they were masturbating — how could they get off on watching this? Not even participating, but just watching?
But he couldn’t form any words even if his mouth wasn’t choked with cumwads. It was thick and creamy like boogers, and Antonov thought there might be mucus from someone’s nose in the mix. He couldn’t see anyway, and all he could hear was his own sobs. The KGB officers around him formed a circle, dicks in hand, those who hadn’t cum yet.
None of them had dicks as long or as thick as Officer Gromov, but they were mostly pretty big. One by one they popped off, filling his open mouth with their humiliated wads of cream. Each load they sprayed over Antonov’s mouth and cheeks tasted even worse than the last.
“Destroy him! Cover him with so much cum his mother won’t recognize him!”
“Your wife will never have respect for you now!”
Finally Officer Gromov held up his hand for silence. The other KGB officers gradually fell silent, and they smiled as Officer Gromov groaned.
“I am ready to pluck his manhood,” Officer Gromov said with a groan. “He is my pussy now.”
Even the watching inmates were quiet, watching with hushed expressions and grim faces. The only sound was Officer Gromov’s moist humping, the gurgling sound made by his massive prick sliding into Antonov’s tight hole. A wave of pain and intense pressure rocked him, and Antonov squirmed in shame all over again. He could feel the humiliation on his body like the layer of saliva (both his own and the KGB officers’s) that covered his skin. That thin mask of fluids crawled like foul bugs, the nastiness seeping into his skin.
Then a spurt of hot cum hit Antonov, who was flush and covered in tears. A fresh sob erupted deep within him, and Antonov tried to bury his cum-streaked face. But the KGB officers didn’t let him — they made him keep his face bare so everyone who watched this on video would know who it was.
“We will put this on the Internet, so everyone who was at that protest will know what happens when we see them again. We will arrest everyone and treat them like you. We do not tolerate lawbreaking, and we do not tolerate deadbeats.”
“Take my nut, bitch!” Officer Gromov barked, making Antonov squeal, squirm and clench down hard on his asshole. Gromov moaned, his massive muscles flexing and relaxing, back and forth with such intensity it seemed he might break the stitching on his too-tight uniform. His cock rammed in and out of Antonov’s with long, powerful strokes.
The cum filled Antonov up inside. It was hot and sticky, and Antonov thought he would forever feel it within him. Officer Gromov waited until his cock had spewed every drop of cum and started growing limp then let it flop out. A big frothy ball of cum slipped out at the same time.
“You’re going to taste your own whorishness. Bitch.”
Officer Gromov grabbed that ass-slime and cum mixture with his fingers. He groaned at how disgusting it was, but wiped it off on Antonov’s face as the other KGB officers cheered. By then Antonov’s mouth was inured to the foul flavor, or maybe it tasted so similar to the body fluids already on his face that Antonov didn’t taste it too much. He slathered his tongue up and down Gromov’s sensitive cockshaft, slurping up the jizz and assjuice that clung to it.
Then they all just walked away. They left Antonov there on the table, his body sore, blushing as the inmates chanted insults at him. He stood on wobbly legs.
Had they just abandoned him? Maybe they considered the ramming to be punishment enough, he thought. He hadn’t paid the fine, so they rammed him and now he could go. Maybe, he thought, I should leave the country. I could go to Britain. No one will judge me for this there.
But when he recovered enough to look up, Officer Gromov was there with his arms crossed over his chest. He pointed to the door to the jail.
“What are you doing? You go in there, bitch.”
“What?”
“You owe a fine. You will live in the jail and get rammed by anyone who wants to. They will pay you money if they feel you deserve it. Once you make enough to pay off your fine, we will let you go,” he said. “But you will also have to pay for food and water. So you had better start making money.”
Antonov wept. “Please… won’t you pay…?”
“Me? No,” he said. “I do not pay, not unless you were very good at being my pussy. And you were not. You will must practice.”
Antonov cried as he returned to the jail. He wanted to get back to his family — assuming they would not reject him — and to get to the United Kingdom, so that meant he was going to need to start making some money.
First things first, he thought, I need to figure out which of the inmates in here might have some money. Then I can get paid. He trembled as he tried to clean his face off. His throat was sore, but no matter. It was only good for one thing now.

The Raunchy Bouncer

Rob could have his pick of the bouncers at this trashy strip club, but he doesn’t want any of the handsome prettyboys… he wants the brutish scarface they call Knuckle! Can he submit to Knuckle’s powerful ways?!

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Read the whole thing here!

Rob Winthrop was beginning to wonder if Knuckle had changed his mind. He sat in the champagne room alone, getting hard. The stripper — Destiny was her name — had giggled when Rob said he wanted to taste the dick of one of the bouncers, and when he said his target was Knuckle, she howled with peals of laughter interspersed with squeals of shock. She asked several times if he was sure, and did he mean the white one or the black one.
He meant the white one. He knew them both. The black one was Davon, and he was cute, like he should be an older brother in a Disney movie. He’d seem tough but he’d bust out homespun big-bro wisdom. That was not Rob’s type.
He liked his men rough and nasty, and Knuckle fit the bill. He was white, squat, no-necked, with a big burn scar on the side of his neck and shoulder. He was vaguely bikerish, vaguely skinheadish and — when Davon was around, at least — somewhat thuggesque too. He was intense. Everybody knew about him, even people who never came to Lipsweet knew about the “freakazoid bouncer at the strip club”. Knuckle looked like a serial killer, and he talked like Slingblade.
“Are you sure? He smells. Like he doesn’t use deodorant. He says he does, but I don’t think he does.”
“We complained about his smell, Mr. Gregarian told him to shower more or something. It helped… some.”
“Yeah, you want Davon, he is so cute. He’s got dimples for days. And he will totally let you jack him off for like fifty bucks, if I tell him I think it’s hot. Which I will, for fifty bucks also.”
“No. I want the weird one.”
Rob didn’t explain. Women, he thought, were so stupid. They liked clean men, but Rob knew that the best men were the raunchiest ones. The tastiest fruit was the most rancid, that was what he always said. Or at least what he always thought. He didn’t say that kind of thing out loud very often because people would think him weird.
Now Rob sat in the champagne room, certain that something had gone wrong, that he had changed his mind. Rob asked Knuckle point-blank, right in front of Davon — the strip club, Lipsweet, was ten minutes to closing time then — and offered him five hundred dollars.
But Knuckle just scowled. One of the girls dragged Rob away as though he had made a faux pas. He thought maybe Knuckle was more violent than he had predicted.
But she said he would do it, he just needed to get drunk first. And so that was why Rob sat in the champagne room.
It’d be better if he doesn’t see you until he’s ready.
Rob was so excited. Mom had been riding him about getting a girlfriend. She texted him all night, increasingly incomprehensibly as she guzzled her gin and Rob waited in the strip club for the time to be right. Knuckle kept drinking. Rob needed him good and drunk.
Oh god, he thought, Mom’d be furious and humiliated if she knew Rob had gone to a strip club. She thought places like that should be illegal. Hell, she thought Hooters should be illegal. She’d be fine with police inspecting women’s hemlines like in the olden days.
Finally the door opened. Knuckle tottered in, on unsteady feet. He was obviously very drunk. He reeked of liquor. He had taken off his shirt, so he wore only a wifebeater, which revealed that that burn scar on the side of his neck extended in thin tendrils down his chest and his belly. It looked like something hot and sticky had been dumped on him. His muscular chest was too big for him, his size bursting out of his tight wifebeater, his pecs rippling like he needed to use them for every action he took.
“Yo,” he said. “Let’s do this.” He had a deep, gravelly voice as flat as a pancake. For the first time, Rob wondered if something was very wrong with Knuckle. He looked at Rob as though he was going to murder him, eyes narrowed to slits. Rob understood then why the strippers were afraid of him.
“Okay.” Rob quaked, but he also took a deep breath of the sweaty funk that came off Knuckle’s powerful body. He had ejected a drunk asshole from the bar a few minutes ago, that was why he was worked up now, heart racing, sweat evaporating off his shoulders. His nostrils kept flaring, like he was working up enough fury to start swinging. He actually seemed more angry now than he did when kicking that man out, like he was still getting worked up over it. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his face, because his eyebrow had been busted open when the man got a kick in. He was on the ground then, kicking up.
Knuckle either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he was bleeding. He had a black eye too, an old one, more of a yellow eye now. His nose was crooked and squat and you could tell it would be easy to manipulate, it was one of those oft-broken noses you could play with like silly-putty. His ears were cauliflowered too. Was he a boxer? Probably. MMA fighter, something like that. Men like him always were MMA fighters.
He belched. The smell of cheap alcohol flooded Rob’s nostrils. He sunk to his knees and grabbed Knuckle’s cock through his ratty jeans.
Knuckle didn’t react to Rob’s touch, like he was too drunk to notice. He swayed. His dick twitched but it didn’t get hard yet. His pecs flexed beneath his stained wifebeater.
“I am gonna hurt ya, boy,” Knuckle murmured. Or maybe it wasn’t a murmur, maybe his voice was always like that, simmering like an angry pot. “You ain’t gonna like this. I ain’t some downlow homeboy like Davon. You wanna get him off?” The way he said ‘homeboy’ made it sound like he was subbing it in for a racial slur.
“Kinda. But I want you more.”
He chuckled. “If you quit partway through, you still gotta pay me.”
“Okay. I won’t quit.”
“I’m gonna hit you. I’m gonna make you real nasty.”
“That’s what I was countin’ on.” Rob shivered with both fear and arousal. He tried to touch Knuckle’s cock through his filthy jeans, which were stained with blood and mud and who-knew-what-else, but Knuckle slapped his hand away. It wasn’t a nice slap either. It hurt, and Rob took his hand away and frowned, and then another twinge of pain came from his hand as though Knuckle had hit him a second time. He didn’t, but his glare felt like a punch.
“I plowed men who displeased me in prison, and I only do it one way, so don’t go tellin’ me how to do it. I do it my way.” Knuckle grunted. His eyes narrowed to slits. He punched with one fist into the palm of the other hand, and he did it so suddenly and with such a loud thump it made Rob jump.
“Okay.” Rob gulped. He touched Knuckle’s dick through his jeans again, because Knuckle shifted his gaze in a way that suggested he wanted it. When Knuckle didn’t immediately complain, Rob touched the bulge in those filthy jeans with his fingertips, as gentle and gingerly as he could manage it.
Knuckle wrinkled his nose. It sounded like he had hoped to turn Rob off so he could get paid without having to do anything, or maybe that was too much guile to attribute to someone like Knuckle. Knuckle let out a growl like an angry housecat. “Get ya hand off my dick, bitch. I ain’t tell you to touch it yet.”
Rob dropped his hands to the ground. “Please, sir? I want to taste it.” He blushed.
“You will.” He pulled his cock out through the fly of his jeans. He let it flop there, limp, just inches in front of Rob’s face. For a moment, nothing happened, and Rob wondered if Knuckle was backing out. Maybe this was where he was gonna get violent. Rob winced, already certain he was going to get pistol-whipped or something. Maybe one of the strippers was colluding with Knuckle to rob Rob, not that he had any money.
But instead, Knuckle closed his eyes, sighed and let loose with a stream of piss. That was so sudden Rob yelped. Knuckle didn’t have the universal body language that most men did when they pissed. Usually that wasn’t the kind of thing that could be a surprise. You can always tell when a man’s about to piss. Knuckle, on the other hand, had the same face he had on when kicking that drunk out of the bar.
The urine was hot and acrid, and it made Rob’s eyes water. He doused his face in it and let it fill his mouth. It overflowed and still more came, soaking his clothes, and it puddled up on the disgusting floor of the strip club men’s room.
Rob loved piss. It made his own cock get hard in his pants. He didn’t touch it yet because he wanted to wait, and he wanted to savor the bitter taste of Knuckle’s urine. Rob felt filthy, skin crawling, clothes plastered to his flesh. He shivered.
“Don’t swallow yet, pansy,” he said. He bent down and pursed his lips like he was going to kiss Rob. Instead he hocked up a big loogie and spat it right into Rob’s mouth. “Still no swallowing, bitch.” He spat a few more times, leering with disgust as his phlegm plopped into Rob’s throat. The taste was sour and rancid, and it made Rob’s dick hard. Knuckle stood up, turned around and dropped his jeans. He stuck his ass in front of Rob’s face, spread his cheeks and farted.
He had a nice hairy ass, which smelled of stale sweat and farts even before Knuckle let loose. Then it was even stinkier. Rob retched and gagged, but still he neither swallowed nor spat out the raunch-soup in his mouth.
Knuckle poked his head out the door. “Damn, nigga, he takin’ it, you right, you right-“
“Man… What’d I tell you ‘bout calling me yo’ nigga?” Davon sounded like he was waiting on the other side of the door, listening in, maybe snickering with one of the strippers.
“I ain’t say my nigga. I said you was a nigga-“
“Don’t.”
“Come, look at my bitch, he is filthy,” Knuckle said. His voice stayed flat. He opened the door wide enough for Davon to see, and Rob thought Davon would laugh. Instead, he shouted back to Knuckle, who stayed stoic as though nothing was happening.
Davon duked up, and still Knuckle stood there like a statue. Meanwhile Rob listened and gargled on the mess in his mouth. Davon shadowboxed the air.
“C’mon, bitch, you fuckin’ piece of shit, c’mon!” Davon kept punching the air in front of Knuckle, who stonefaced. Every time he punched Davon grunted like a cocky bastard, like he was making Knuckle flinch. Knuckle wasn’t flinching and seemed totally unperturbed by Davon’s threats.
Which made sense to Rob. Davon was big and muscular and could no doubt throw a punch, but he was clean-cut and smooth. He was a prettyboy. He was the exact opposite of Knuckle in every way, and Rob found him a total turnoff. Girls loved him. He was also famous locally, as a bouncer, cuz the girls all said he was cute. At least the girls Rob hang out with did.
Okay, Rob wouldn’t kick him out of bed either. But he’d make him get sweaty first. At least that’d be something. Davon looked like he was literally never sweaty.
One of the girls hissed at them to stop fighting, and they seemed to mostly make up, though Rob could still hear hostility in their voices.
“Come on in, Davon, I know you said you was into plowin’ any hole-“
“I ain’t say that, motherfucker. I said I wouldn’t gotta think twice about doin’ it for five hundred bucks,” Davon said. “But that was before you pissed and farted on him. No way now. Nasty-ass shit. After he takes a shower, then I let him swing on it for five hundred bucks. You hear that, freak?”
Rob gurgled loudly, and some of the mess in his mouth overflowed. Davon erupted in gags and nervous laughter.
“Aw, I smelled that, I smelled that!” He screamed and walked away, then came back closer. “Aw, shit, you are nasty!” He poked his head into the door and gagged again. He ran off, talking to the strippers in the club. “Don’t go in there, ladies, it is nasty. It is too nasty. No way.”
Pain erupted in Rob’s cheek as Knuckle slapped him hard across the face. He slammed the door shut too, cutting off the sound of Davon and the strippers guffawing while the strip club shut down for the night. The sun was about to come up.
Rob moved for Knuckle’s cock, but Knuckle pushed him to the ground. He landed with a splash in the piss-puddle
“I ain’t tell you to touch it yet.”
“I’m sorry, Knuckle-“
“Don’t you call me that. You call me sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lick the floor, bitch,” he said. He crossed his arms over his chest and sneered. He spat on the floor.
Rob bent down and licked. He lapped at the stinking spot on the filthy linoleum floor, which tasted like foot and cum. It was salty, gritty and deliciously nasty.
“Ew, you know dudes just nut all over this floor, right? Like, hundreds of guys?”
“I know, sir.”
“You are fucking disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourself. You talk to ya mama wit’ that mouth?”
He nodded. “Yes, sir. I am ashamed of myself.”
“You deepthroat?”
“Yes, sir,” Rob said. He poked a finger down his well-trained throat and gagged. Knuckle nodded his satisfaction.
“Alright. I’m gonna plow ya throat now,” he spat the words out angrily. He smacked Rob again. “You gonna fight me?”
“No-“
“Huh? Say it louder, bitch! Ya gonna fight me?!”
“No, sir-“
He smacked him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I’m pitiful!” Rob screamed. Tears of humiliation, fear and arousal erupted, and Knuckle shook his head. He smacked him over and over again. He took his cock out and flopped it over Rob’s face. He jabbed it, half-hard, like he was trying to stab Rob’s eyes out with it.
“Fuck you! Fuck you!” He pulled Rob’s jaws apart and slapped his dick right down into Rob’s mouth. His cock was still half-limp and rank from his sweaty boxers. He used all his weight to ram his dick in, pushing Rob’s head onto the floor.
He pivoted his hips, making Rob gag more violently than he ever had before. He couldn’t breathe, he could only retch at the rancid smell of Knuckle’s unclean cock. He got hard as soon as he got his dick wet, and it throbbed in Rob’s throat.
“Ah, damn, I wasn’t gonna admit this no matter what, pansy, but you swallow dick pretty good. If you was my girl, I’d tie you up in my basement, bitch.” He paused. “That’s a compliment, by the way.”
He pulled his dick out at last, and Rob took a deep, hoarse breath. He was dizzy, his lungs begging for oxygen. “Thank you, sir. I’d love to be tied up in your basement.”
“Hey, you okay in there?!” A female voice called out from outside — it sounded like Destiny, the stripper who was a friend of Knuckle’s. It was she who had assured him that the strip club wouldn’t intervene if Rob did get Knuckle to agree to some rough trade.
Knuckle looked down at Rob and raised one eyebrow. “I ain’t lettin’ you out till I’m done, so you best tell her you okay.”
Rob’s voice was hoarse and scratchy. “Yeah, I’m fine!”
“Okay… Have fun, Rob…” Destiny giggled and whispered something. A few girls giggled as they walked away.
The champagne room was very hot and humid, and Knuckle was drenched in sweat. Rob started licking his balls without being prompted. Knuckle grunted like he was going to punish Rob for doing something without permission, but then it felt so good he didn’t want to stop. He moaned.
“Get ya tongue out while you suck my balls, and really suck on ‘em,” Knuckle said. “Make some noise. Slurp ‘em. Slurp ‘em like a prison bitch.”
The salty, acidic taste of ballsweat made Rob’s eyes water all over again. He snaked his tongue out over the underside of his balls. Sweat poured into his mouth as Knuckle shook his body from side to side. He picked his balls up and plopped them back in Rob’s mouth. Rob slurped like he was sucking soda out of a nearly empty cup.
Then he switched back and forth between balls and cock. He dropped his balls in Rob’s mouth and groaned as he wiggled them around, then took his balls out and rammed his dick all the way in until Rob choked. Then he wiggled his hips around again to make Rob gag.
He pulled out and grabbed Rob by the throat, cutting him off from gasping. He dragged Rob across the room by the throat, peering him in the eyes. “I’m gonna stick ya in the ass now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s gonna hurt. I don’t use lube. I’m gonna make you bloody, if you ain’t too loose already,” he said. He was breathing heavy as though barely in control of his actions; it almost looked like he was imitating someone specific. His wild eyes were in a frenzy. Rob could definitely see why the strippers were afraid of him.
“Yes, sir-” Rob yelped in pain. Knuckle’s finger jammed into his asshole, all the way in. Rob’s hole puckered. He moaned as his pain was replaced by pleasure, and his dick rocketed to attention. Knuckle saw it, spat and punched Rob, which made him moan harder. Blood poured from his nose.
“You like it when you get punched wit’ a finger in ya ass?”
“Yes, sir,” Rob said through his tears. His dick spasmed, precum leaking out. Every time Knuckle punched him, the pain grew worse and his prostate came alive a little more.
“That is nasty. You know when I was in prison, this is how I punished my bitch. He used to cry and beg me to stop. But I ain’t never stop. I like hearin’ that sound. Makes me hard. And you like it?” He spat on Rob’s face. “You sicken me.”
“Yes, sir.” Rob sighed in relief as Knuckle withdrew his finger. But that lasted only a moment. He rammed his entire dick in with one smooth motion of his hips. Rob was loose from both arousal and the lube he had applied earlier — he knew from experience that Knuckle was not likely to bother. Alphas like him rarely did.
Knuckle grabbed Rob by his hair and ground his face into the floor. He spat over and over onto Rob’s cheeks, and on his tongue that lolled out of his open mouth. He punched Rob every few seconds in his side, not as hard as he could, but hard enough to hurt, and to make Rob’s ass clench around his cock.
“You like this, ya nasty? Huh? You disgustin’ piece of trash…”
“I love it, sir, I love it.”
He stopped moving. He hissed. “I’m gonna tell you a secret, pansy,” he said. “Ya know that story I just told ‘bout punishin’ my bitch by punchin’ him when he sittin’ on my cock?”
“Yes…” Rob had trouble concentrating due to the pain and pleasure simultaneously assaulting his senses.
“I tell every deadbeat I beat up that story to scare ‘em off ever comin’ back to this club. If they do come back, I make ‘em lick my asshole the next time. If they come back a third time, then I make ‘em my prison bitch for the night in the alley around back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But that story is a lie,” he said. “If you ever tell anyone this, pansy, I will kill you. I swear to god, I will kill you in the most horrendous way I can think of. I will track down your mama and strike her dead too. Get me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was the prison bitch in that scenario. I was owned by a black. I was little then, I wasn’t as big as I am now.” He paused, then he spat on Rob’s face again. “So that’s why I hate blacks. And cops, and bitches, and Mexicans and just ‘bout everyone else too. And ‘specially you, bitch.” He wrapped his hand around Rob’s throat and squeezed. “I could choke you to death right now, and you’d prolly like it. I would too. I don’t wanna go to back to prison, but I would. You’d prolly get off on that, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
He moved his dick from side to side, twitching it inside Rob’s ass. That caused mind-blowing agony and ecstasy to course through Rob’s veins. He squealed and squirmed.
“If you ever tell anyone that, motherfucker, I will bury you alive! I will rip ya goddamn head off! Ya hear me?!”
“Yes, sir! I swear!”
He choked Rob more. He smacked his face, then put both hands on his cheeks and pressed down with all his might as he slammed his dick in and out. Rob screamed and came onto the floor. The most potent orgasm of his life ran through his body. He shot a big wad of cum that sprayed over the grimy linoleum beneath him.
Then he felt Knuckle’s orgasm as well. It was a thick and creamy load, hot, sticky, spreading throughout Rob’s body. It was tremendously satisfying, and they both sighed. For just a moment, Knuckle seemed almost caring as he rubbed Rob’s head and shoulders.
“Fuckin’ nasty, I oughta rip the asshole right off ya body.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then he pushed Rob down again. He pulled his dick out and flopped its limp, rubbery shaft all over Rob’s face. Raunchy assjuice spread down his chin, and Rob licked it clean. He loved sucking ass off limp dicks, so he guzzled down every drop even as it made him gag over and over again.
Like he was in a rush to leave, Knuckle stood up as soon as he was done. He kicked Rob to the ground and walked out the door, stark naked. He turned around before he shut the door.
“Where’s that money, pervert?”
Rob stretched and sighed. He grabbed his wallet out of his pants. He passed the money to Knuckle, while a few girls giggled at the sight of Knuckle’s bare ass and muscled back, which dripped with sweat.
“Put some damn clothes on, Knuckle!”
Knuckle ignored them and counted the money. He scowled and turned around. “I’ve got spare clothes in the back,” he said. “For just this kind of occasion.” He closed the door behind himself. The last thing Rob heard him say was, “Don’t nobody go in there. You don’t wanna see that.”
That was fine with Rob. This fantasy had worked out even better than he had hoped. He licked his own mess off the floor, then masturbated a few more times before drifting off to sleep. He sighed as he heard the strippers leave for the night. He curled up with Knuckle’s nasty clothes — which had been dirty even before they were covered in piss and sweat and cum on the floor of the champagne room. Rob sucked on Knuckle’s musky boxers like a security blanket.
He was going to take those boxers home with him. They ought to last him, he thought, until his next bout of alpha male action.

The Convict Bottoms

Leslie is a small, weak man working in a maximum-security prison, so he’s wary when the alpha prisoner Samson Miles makes a surprising offer… Samson just wants to be touched, even if that means letting Leslie put him in a mind-blowing Twink on Top situation! Can Samson submit?

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

“You come in this cell, boi,” Samson Miles said with a growl. “I’ll eat yo’ ass wit’ a spoon.”
The trustee shivered, blushed and walked away. He was a skinny white man with a weak face, so Leslie wasn’t surprised he was afraid. Samson watched him go and catcalled after his ass as he went. Samson whistled, then glanced in Leslie’s direction. He nodded, looking Leslie up and down.
“Who’re you?” he asked. He ran his tongue over his upper lip, undressing Leslie with his eyes.
Leslie stepped forward. This was his third month working at this prison, and it was his first shift working on the Dangerous Inmates Ward. The men who had cells here were too dangerous to live in general population — they had mostly either killed or seriously hurt another inmate, or had threatened to do so too many times. It was rather like solitary confinement, and at the moment, Samson was the only inmate here who could even talk to anyone.
The cells in the D.I. Ward had two doors, so the inmates weren’t able to come near the hallway — the door to their cell only opened on the second, outer door, which was always shut and locked. They couldn’t say anything to anyone in the hall or even see who was there. But Samson’s outer door was broken, so he was able to interact with anyone walking by for the first in more than a year.
Leslie strode over to Samson’s cell. Leslie was small, he wasn’t weak, but he was barely five feet tall. He was a youthful-looking twink, so he had known the guards and inmates would consider him a weakling.
“I’m Officer Nguyen,” Leslie said. He stopped in front of the cell.
Samson was more than six and a half feet tall, and built like a football player — he spent his commissary money on protein bars so he could continue to bulk up. He was just slightly too old to have a six-pack, but you could tell he did before coming to prison. It was hard to keep a perfectly etched body behind bars, despite what the movies and television suggested, Samson must have spent almost all his time in that cell working out, Leslie thought, which wasn’t too surprising, since there wasn’t a lot else he could do.
“You new, huh?”
Leslie nodded. “I should punish you for threatening that man,” Leslie said. “That’s against the rules, Mr. Miles.” He wasn’t going to do that because it was a lot of paperwork, and he would get in trouble for failing to maintain order on the ward. Besides that, the warden didn’t want a paper trail proving that the outer door to Samson’s cell was broken.
“Oh, Mr. Miles, how fancy,” Samson said. He was so much taller than Leslie that he had to look straight down to make eye contact with him through the bars of his cell door. “Oh damn, you should come in here, little man. I would tear your ass up. You look good enough to eat. I’d wear yo’ little body like a cockhat.”
“That’s another threat, Mr. Miles. I can write you up-“
“Wasn’t a threat.” He murmured lowly, looking Leslie’s trim little body up and down.
“What?”
“I wasn’t threatenin’ ya,” he said. He smiled. “I mean… I wanna make sweet love to ya booty.” He smiled again as Leslie gasped. Samson licked his lips. “Don’t get me wrong. I want pussy. But I been in this room for the last year, and I ain’t seen a girl in person in years. I need some contact, some affection, y’know.”
“Oh,” Leslie said. “So you’d jerk me off?”
“Hell yeah,” he said. He kissed a cell bar and licked it slowly to demonstrate. “I’d lick it clean. I lick yo’ ass too, honky, lick yo’ boypussy like a lollipop wit’ a friendly appeals court judge in the center. Then you can plow me good. I bet a pervert like you know how to do it right, huh?”
Leslie blushed. “Well… not to brag, but I think I’m pretty good.”
“Then come on in here. I won’t tell no one. You the only guard here tonight, right?”
Leslie nodded. “I’m here alone, but I don’t trust you, Mr. Miles.”
“Call me Samson, nigga.”
“That’s inappropriate,” Leslie said. “I’m supposed to call you ‘Mr. Miles’.”
“You think I’ll attack you if you come in here?” he asked with a broad grin. “Put cuffs on me. Put a dental guard in. I just need to be touched, nigga.” He paused and licked his lips again. He kissed his own bicep and took off his shirt to reveal a broad, strapping chest, inked with faded gang tats. He flexed his pecs enticingly. “Is it okay if I call you nigga?”
“I guess so,” Leslie said.
“Good,” he said. “I like Asians. I like the way they taste. I like pretendin’ they’s a woman so’s I can make love inside ’em. I like makin’ a big ol’ pot of love up in they gut. But if you want, I turn the tables for ya. You can stew up the love in my gut, I don’t care. Tie me up so I can’t hurt ya. Just touch me, nigga.” Samson stuck his finger out between the cell bars. “Come on, do it. I know you want to.”
Leslie did it without thinking about it. Samson’s finger was callused and leathery, thick and long — he was so big that all of his body parts seemed impossibly big. His middle finger was bigger than some dicks Leslie had handled.
Samson groaned as though he was going to orgasm solely from Leslie sucking on his finger. He explored the inside of Leslie’s mouth, chuckling when he stuck his finger deep enough to make Leslie gag.
“I wanna taste you too, Officer Nguyen. I don’t care how it happens, I wanna taste you and feel you inside me,” Samson said, his voice low and whispery as though he was worried someone in the other cells might hear (which was impossible due to the ultra-thick double layer of doors they all had).
When he pulled off Samson’s finger, he was surprised to see Samson had pulled his cock out of his orange prison jumpsuit. It was already twitching to attention, its veiny thickness so appealing that Leslie couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was a two-hander, Leslie thought, excited to have something so beautiful waiting for him — being able to top a man like Samson was one of his biggest fantasies, and he couldn’t believe it was coming true.
Leslie took Samson’s manhood with one hand and lazily stroked it. He must have been incredibly horny, because it perked right up to iron-hard immediately. Samson groaned and his knees buckled — Leslie suspected he was exaggerating to seduce Leslie. But he had to admit it was working.
“Hands,” Leslie said.
Samson grinned and put his hands out. Leslie reached between the bars and slapped cuffs on them. Wanting to be extra-careful, he did the same for Samson’s ankles, and he used shackles so Samson’s ankles and wrists were also bound to each other. That gave him almost no mobility. He nearly stopped there, but then Leslie realized Samson’s teeth were still a worry.
“Open up,” Leslie said.
Samson grumbled, but did so. Leslie applied a mouth-guard to him — he had to stand on his tiptoes, and Samson had to bend his knees a bit for Leslie to reach his mouth. That made it impossible for Samson to close his mouth completely.
Then Leslie unlocked the cell, his heart pounding. He couldn’t believe he was really doing this. The cell was like a narrow closet, with a dingy steel toilet and sink, and a shelf with a thin mattress for a bed. Samson’s big body barely fit between the walls and the bunk.
“Oh yeah, boi,” Samson said. The mouth-guard was not as tight as it normally was — typically it was used for dental procedures that required a wide-open mouth, but Leslie kept it on the loosest setting, so Samson could still talk with only a slight speech impediment. He simply couldn’t shut his mouth completely. Samson growled seductively and sunk to his knees. “You wanna sixty-nine?”
“No,” Leslie said. “Put your mouth on my dick.” He had never been in a position of power over someone like this, and he intended to use it. Samson looked disappointed, but he sunk to his knees.
He said something as he lowered himself, but the mouth guard made it hard to understand. Something about getting revenge, possible. Leslie was more focused on Samson’s powerful physique.
There was such an extreme height difference that even on his knees, Samson couldn’t reach Leslie’s crotch. Samson’s head was at Leslie’s chest-height. That didn’t slow Samson down, however, and despite the awkwardness of his height, he kissed Leon’s chest. His tongue stayed out, tracing a trail down his belly, then back up.
“Hmmm…” Leslie couldn’t help but moan. Then, growing paranoid, he checked again that they weren’t going to get caught. Not that he was worried about punishment, which would only be minor and only if the warden was who came in, but because he would be embarrassed to be caught like this. For one thing, only a wussy guard who couldn’t outmuscle an inmate would use a mouthguard and shackles like this. Everybody knew Leslie was weaker than a lot of the guards, but he didn’t want to draw attention to that.
Anyway though, nobody was coming, and it was almost impossible that anyone would be. His hands roamed over Samson’s powerful muscles, which rippled beneath Leslie’s touch.
“Yeah, you taste even better than I thought,” Samson said with a rumbling, aroused tone. “You taste just like pretty girls, like lotion and sunshine.” He licked all the way from Leslie’s neck to his belly button, craning his head down to reach.
On a whim, Leslie leaned in and kissed him. He wanted to see how Samson reacted. To his surprise, there was no hesitation. Samson kissed him back, the best he could with the mouth-guard in. He plunged his tongue deep in Leslie’s mouth.
Then he moved down to Leslie’s neck. He couldn’t exactly kiss back with the mouthguard in, but Samson licked and battered Leslie’s neck with his tongue so hard Leslie thought he might have a hickey later.
Leslie took off his pants. Samson grunted his approval and moved back down to licking his nipples, while his hands caressed Leslie’s cock and stroked it to full erection. It throbbed in his grip, and Leslie had to take it away lest he shoot his nut too soon.
Samson pulled down Leslie’s underwear, and Leslie’s cock popped free. Samson had been stroking it but couldn’t see it til now, so his eyes opened wide. He chuckled.
“Damn, boy, you got a bigger dick than any Asian I ever seen,” Samson said with a whistle. “We gonna get nasty, right? You can jerk me off too?”
“No,” Leslie said. He smiled — he was often complimented on his cock size, and he especially liked hearing it from someone as well-hung as Samson. “If you do good enough, I’ll give you a reacharound when I plow you. That’s all you’re getting.”
He frowned but nodded. “Fine, fine, you beautiful, boy.” He licked a trail down Leslie’s smooth, flat belly to his crotch. “You got a big set of balls for a little man,” he said, then opened his mouth and swallowed Leslie’s cock. He gagged as soon as he touched it, but that didn’t slow him down at all. He was so big he could easily swallow the whole thing.
Leslie gasped, he was so surprised by Samson’s willingness to jerk him off — a part of him had expected Samson to back out, which would have been disappointing, but Leslie would have accepted it anyway. His anxiety over the potential for a surprise attack diminished as Samson’s tongue slathered spit over his cock. Samson had to virtually lay on the ground to do it, and after a few seconds of awkward stooping, he did precisely that. He rolled over onto his back, inviting Leslie to mount him.
Ramming his dick into Samson’s mouth, Leslie grunted, as instantly a wave of pleasure washed over him. He groaned. He leaned his body over Samson’s torso and licked his hairy pecs and meaty chest. Leslie realized it was impossible for them to truly sixty-nine — Leslie would have to grow about six inches taller just to kiss the tip of Samson’s dick — but Leslie did stretch over him as though trying.
In this position, his cock was forced to dagger down Samson’s throat, and Samson either enthusiastically accepted it or was unable to choke it out due to the mouthguard. It was impossible to tell from Leslie’s vantage point, and it didn’t bother him either way. He moaned into the meaty middle of Samson’s torso, while his hands stroked Samson’s cock from root to tip. He had a shockingly strong erection considering Leslie had barely touched it until now.
But Leslie wanted to focus on the pleasure emanating from his cock, as Samson’s warm, moist mouth and throat squeezed around it. His balls slapped on Samson’s nose with each thrust of his hips, forcing his dick in and out of Samson’s mouth. Samson’s tongue battered the top of his dick, and when Leslie pulled all the way out, Samson gasped as though to beg for more. Leslie didn’t wait long enough to hear if that was, in fact, what he begged for.
“Oh god, hmm…” Leslie murmured. “You have such a nice throat.”
Another low growly sound emanated from Samson’s throat as he enthusiastically handled Leslie’s dick, and the vibrations sent a chill of pleasure up Leslie’s spine. Samson’s fingers — bound by shackles — curled up beneath Leslie’s body, and his muscles all flexed as he struggled to breathe.
Wanting to be sure Samson was still willing, Leslie pulled his cock out. Its spit-slippery shaft spasmed where it lay against Samson’s face. Samson kissed it the best he could around the mouthguard that covered his lips.
“Are you still into this?”
“Hell yeah, come on…” Samson said. “Lemme keep at it, I taste precum, and damn, boy, it tastes good after all these years. Tastes just like pussyjuice, really. A bit saltier.”
His balls slapped against Samson’s nostrils as he rammed his dick all the way in again. Samson choked but didn’t stop licking, no matter how violently Leslie pounded his cock in and out. His body desperately wanted to continue — he had never had such amazing dome — but Leslie didn’t want this to end there.
“You really wanna lick my ass?” Leslie pulled out so Samson could answer. Samson gasped for both air and more dick, and he chased Leslie’s knob with his open mouth. His tongue dangled out as though desperate for it, but Leslie teased him, keeping his knob just milllimeters from Samson’s waiting tongue.
“Fuck yeah,” Samson said with a low roar. When Leslie moved, he licked Leslie’s balls with his thick tongue. He stuck it out of his mouth to demonstrate how big it was, as Leslie got up off him. Samson’s muscles rippled in a way that could have been pleasure or anticipation or could have been him fighting against the shackles and the mouthguard.
Leslie couldn’t tell. He was shocked he would do that willingly, but he wasn’t going to argue. He sat back onto Samson’s face, and he grunted when his tongue pushed in.
It happened quick, like Samson had given a million rimjobs before. Which maybe he had? Leslie wouldn’t have thought so, but you never know in a place like this. It takes all kinds, and there’s one of each in this prison.
A surge of ecstasy jolted up Leslie’s spine, and his whole body tensed up. He wasn’t expecting Samson to go at it with such enthusiasm. Not many men did that. Up til now, the pleasure Leslie had been feeling was very casual — intense, but normal — but this rimjob was visceral and shudder-inducing. It brought Leslie’s cock from erect to spasming and leaking precum, and it made Leslie’s whole body as he fucked himself on Samson’s tongue as though Leslie’s ass was a pussy and Samson’s tongue a giant, wet dildo.
Indeed Samson was so big that his tongue felt like a cock, a rather short but thick cock, plowing him hard. Samson had no compunctions, it seemed, he licked furiously, intensely. His tongue explored every inch of Leslie’s ass, and every motion it made magnified the pleasure coursing through Leslie’s veins.
“Ah, hell, Samson, damn, you got a magic tongue,” Leslie said. His fingers explored Samson’s thick pecs and erect nipples, and they stroked his tangled thicket of chest hair. He was very hairy for a black man, with plenty of kinky black fur tinged with gray, and Leslie alternated between leaning back to grind his ass on Samson’s powerful tongue and leaned forward to bury his face and mouth in the sensitive flesh of his chest. Whenever Samson’s mouth was free, he took a loud hoarse breath for air — which sounded like he was reluctant to keep doing this — then moaned — like he was eager to get back to it — before he plunged his tongue back into the tight rim of Leslie’s ass.
Leslie bounced on his face. His dick begged him to stroke himself off, but he didn’t want to cum too quickly, so he instead kneaded Samson’s big pecs and nipples. Leslie ground his ass on Samson’s face.
When he felt like he might blow his load even without touching himself, Leslie pulled off. Samson’s face was streaking with sweat and assjuice. He gasped for air and licked at the spot where Leslie’s ass used to be, as though he was desperate for more.
Leslie kissed him again, tasting the funk of his own ass on Samson’s tongue, then moved his mouth down Samson’s big body. He descended all the way to his cock, licking every inch of his massive torso. His manhood begged for attention, it raged, pulsating, spasming, demanding someone touch it. Samson flexed his hips as though plowing the air.
As soon as Leslie touched it, he knew Samson was about to shoot his wad. He had been locked up for so long he was ready to explode. Leslie wanted to watch him orgasm when his cock was in Samson’s ass, so he let go. He licked Samson’s nipples until they were both rock-hard, and Leslie let their cocks rub against each other. Precum oozed from Samson’s dick.
“You ever taken it up the ass before?” Leslie asked. He moved slow at this point, to bring down Samson’s tension, as his dick was spewing precum so copiously it looked like jizz. Leslie had seen real men shoot smaller loads of actual jizz. He had to resist the urge to slurp it down. That would surely trigger Samson’s orgasm.
Samson shook his head. “Be gentle, okay? I never done it, but I want you inside me. I need it.” His voice cringed and ached.
“Yeah, I won’t hurt you,” Leslie said. He tightened the shackle-chain connecting Samson’s ankles and wrists, which forced Samson to lift his legs up. His thighs were like tree trunks, Leslie thought as he caressed their hairy thickness. Samson’s fat balls and cock were slick with sweat and precum. Leslie’s hand slowly slid down to his taint, and he played with that sensitive spot there, watching Samson breathe heavily. His muscles all tensed and heaved in sync with Leslie’s fingering.
“Come on, boy, plow me,” Samson said softly. “Stick it in me…”
Leslie let one finger push into his ass. Samson had outrageously thick and plump asscheeks, so Leslie’s entire hand disappeared in his buttcrack just for his finger to make it into his asshole. It was warm and wet, and as soon as he entered him, Samson arched his back. He grimaced in a combination of pleasure and pain.
A shudder ran through Samson’s body, and then Leslie did the same as though it was contagious. His hand caressed the funk-filled hair of Samson’s ass, while his finger plunged in and out. He was gentle at first, then increasingly forceful when Samson didn’t complain. His dick even spasmed as though begging for Leslie to stroke it again.
“Damn, I need it, man, you gotta stick it in,” Samson said, his voice breaking as he groaned. He bit his lip as though he wasn’t used to demonstrating so much passion.
Leslie giggled, amazed at how much power and control he had over Samson’s hulking frame. He would have never thought such a big macho man would love a finger in his ass and beg for even more.
Then he wedged his dick between Samson’s cheeks. Samson grunted in a mixture of embarrassment and horniness. His dick spasmed between Leslie’s fingers. He started to say something — it sounded like he wanted to beg for it again, but was embarrassed by how aroused he was.
Leslie pushed in. He had to spread Samson’s asscheeks to do so, and his cock dragged through a tangled thicket of unkempt hair — normally Leslie didn’t like hairy asses, but he made an exception for Samson.
His ass was hot and tight, but Samson was a big enough man that he could take all of Leslie’s shaft without any lube besides spit. That was good, since Leslie didn’t have any lube.
“Uh, yeah, man, stick it in,” Samson said, whispering, breathless. Sweat dappled his entire body as he struggled to accept every inch.
Leslie groaned as he began gyrating his hips, plowing low and slow to prolong the experience. He stroked off Samson’s cock too, with one hand caressing his low-hanging nutsack.
Slamming his cock in and out, Leslie lost track of time. It could have been a minute, it could have been an hour. It felt like they both expanded to fill the entire cell, so all Leslie sensed was Samson’s muscles and the iron of the prison shackles. They writhed together, Leslie inside of Samson, and filling him with precum.
Finally he could wait no longer. Samson gasped and grunted. He bit his lip and flexed his muscles as though trying to shatter the shackles binding him. Cum sprayed all over Leslie’s hand and Samson’s chest.
It was like he hadn’t cum in years, Leslie thought, and a torrent of semen coated his chest. Samson groaned loudly. His dick spasmed in Leslie’s hand.
Then before Leslie could do anything else, he shot his own load. It filled Samson’s ass with creamy goodness, and Leslie blushed as he moaned passionately. He hoped he wasn’t being too loud, but he had long since lost control of his reaction.
“Of plow yeah… ” Samson moaned, and Leslie echoed him.
He took a deep breath, then wiped up all of Samson’s cum with one hand. He had a puddle in his palm, and both hands were coated with his juice.
“Let me taste that,” Samson said breathlessly. He licked the air. “C’mon, I need to get nasty.”
Leslie poured the cum from both his palms into Samson’s mouth, and let him lick the semen off his fingers. Samson gagged as he did, but enthusiastically continued, like he was trying to see how far he could get himself to go.
It was only when his hands were clean that Leslie pulled his dick out of Samson’s ass. Samson sighed with relief, and lay still, sweaty, on the ground. Leslie mounted his broad chest again and kissed him on the lips.
“You work tomorrow?” Samson asked.
Leslie shook his head. “No. But I’ll be here on Sunday.”
Samson frowned. “Nah. That’s the Lord’s day.” He paused and bit his lip.
“I work Sunday night. I don’t even start until eleven,” Leslie said. “At midnight?”
“You come to my cell at twelve oh one,” Samson said with a grin. “I be waitin’.”

The Raunchy Turkish Oil Wrestler

Rob is desperate for dirty, oily Turkish manmeat, and he’s about to get his fill! That’s because he’s in Turkey taking lessons… and a lot more — from the legendary wrestler Mustafa Mounsir, who’s gonna give Rob the ride of his life!

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Read the whole thing here!

Rob nervously waited for his Turkish instructor to arrive. Rob was dressed like a tourist — which he technically was — and sat there nervously watching the lessons going on in front of him. He was at a grassy field in a small, rural town in Turkey, where the locals practiced for an upcoming oil wrestling tournament.
Turkish oil wrestling was a popular sport here. It was a form of wrestling in which the men — the biggest, hairiest, most macho men in all of Turkey — greased each other up with olive oil from head to toe while wearing these loose leather trousers called a kisbet. Then the goal was to gain control of your oil-slippened opponent by holding onto his kisbet. It inevitably required sticking one’s hands down into one’s opponent’s kisbet, feeling their crotch, ass and every other olive oil-stained muscle. As a keen lover of the male form, Rob considered it the ideal sport.
Rob had done a lot of work to find Mustafa, a professional Turkish oil wrestler who didn’t normally teach lessons. Rob didn’t want to take lessons from a normal class, because he greatly desired spending time with Mustafa Mounsir and his msucled chest. Rob’s ideal physique was a large, handsome and hairy man.
A few tourists and a couple locals were practicing their moves with a lean, handsome Turk in the center of the field. He spoke English well and was encouraging, coach-like. He obviously shaved his chest, for one thing, and probably didn’t have any hair on his back by nature. Rob had suspected as much when he learned there was a tourist-oriented oil-wrestling coaching service — he didn’t want a polished Turk shaved and dolled up for Westerners.
He wanted Mustafa Oğuz Mounsir.
His heart started pounding when he saw Mustafa, a big, hulking brute of a man. He was in the heaviest weight class in Turkish oil wrestling, and it showed in his heavy gait, giant barrel-shaped body, his strapping chest and belly, and his broad shoulders. Most importantly for Rob, however, Mustafa also had powerful muscles and endless curls of body hair stretching up from his chest and over his shoulders. Like all Turks, the hair was dense, kinky and broad, and his sweat clung to it. There was little division between his chest hair, armpit hair, leg and arm hairs, back hair, beard hair and head hair.
“Hello, my name is Rob,” he said, followed by a carefully rehearsed Turkish translation.
Mustafa nodded. “You are here for lesson, yes? I am Mustafa Mounsir.” Mustafa’s English was only a little better than Rob’s Turkish, but he managed to introduce himself and begin a lesson. His accent was thick, as spatchcocking as a dressed chicken, while Rob could think of little more than the closeness of his body hair and the heat emanating from his overworked muscles.
After a few minutes of stretching, Mustafa began showing him some moves. It was obvious that Mustafa was not a teacher; he was gruff; he failed to explain what he was doing; he got frustrated when Rob didn’t do everything exactly right. For his part, Rob did not do well — every time he was instructed to place his hands on Mustafa, a shudder of desire and lust coursed through him.
And all they were doing so far was practicing a few simple holds. About halfway through the first lesson, Mustafa said it was time for a scrimmage, and that meant the best part of Turkish oil wrestling was about to happen. Rob had to force his stiffening dick to quiet down as Mustafa brought him to the side of the field where a pitcher of olive oil waited.
“You will rub it on me. Rub it on ev-er-y part,” Mustafa said, over-enunciating his words. “I will do first.”
Rob nodded. He was pretending to have little idea what Turkish oil wrestling was, so he looked surprised when Mustafa’s callused hands spread oil over Rob’s body, extending down into his loose kisbet.
Praying that he wouldn’t get hard yet, Rob didn’t show how arousing he found Mustafa’s hands running up and down his body, even rubbing olive oil inside Rob’s kisbet, on his ass, his cock and balls, all of it, Mustafa didn’t seem bothered by it. That was a core part of Turkish oil wrestling. Mustafa’s rough-fingered hands had probably rubbed oil into a thousand men’s skin.
Then it was Rob’s turn. Mustafa sneered at him — it seemed he didn’t love the idea of giving lessons to a non-Turk. Rob’s hands dripped with olive oil as he touched Mustafa’s back, which was covered in the thick, kinky black hair that extended over most of his torso. He was like a Turkish sasquatch. Rob’s heart pounded as he forced his fingers through a tangled forest of hair on Mustafa’s lower back.
Then he moved around to the chest, where the hair was even thicker, unapologetically dense, and when Rob disturbed it with his fingers, the odor of stale oil and sweat wafted over him. He got the impression Mustafa expected Rob to be disgusted, and Rob decided to play along. He wrinkled his nose, and Mustafa laughed like he was proud of that.
His body wasn’t perfect, which Rob liked. Six-pack abs were nice to look at, but Rob preferred having some meat to grab onto. That described Mustafa perfectly, his powerful chest like a hard slab of iron with a thick layer of padding on top.
Rob’s hands moved back around to his ass, hands slipping under the kisbet. Much to Rob’s delight, Mustafa’s ass was just as hairy as his chest. The hair there was tangled, so Rob moved slowly, caressing olive oil into those big beefy orbs slowly enough that he worked out all the kinks. His fingers crept between the asscheeks, even though he had the feeling actual Turkish oil wrestlers skipped that, and he touched Mustafa’s quivering hot asshole.
Then he reached underneath Mustafa’s ass, hands stretching between his thighs to the hairy taint. He stood still in front of Mustafa, so he had to step even closer until his face was pushed up against Mustafa’s hairy pecs, and the flavor of sweat-scented olive oil hit his tongue.
By the time Rob got back to the front, shivering in delight when he touched Mustafa’s sweaty ballsac, Rob was already rock-hard. He moved both his hands to the front of Mustafa’s body, starting with his thighs, which were slick with sweat from being in the hot kisbet. He rubbed olive oil into first one trunk-like thigh, then the other.
He cradled Mustafa’s ballsack with his olive oil-laden fingers, and gave his dick one quick stroke. It was long and so thick Rob couldn’t wrap his fingers around it, uncircumcised with extra flesh that moved along with Rob’s fingers.
At last they were done, and Mustafa arranged them for their first lesson. “Feet like this,” he said gruffly, and Rob played along. “No, like this.” He pushed Rob into position.
Having no idea how to defend himself, Rob was on his ass as soon as Mustafa started wrestling. The bigger man had both of his hands down Rob’s kisbet, gripping the leather from inside. The top side of his palms touched Rob’s dick, but Mustafa gave no sign of noticing Rob’s growing erection.
Then they did the same again, and again. Rob managed to dodge Mustafa for a few seconds, but he couldn’t defend himself in any way. He hadn’t given the wrestling part of Turkish oil wrestling much thought. All Rob cared about was the “rubbing oil into men’s muscles” part.
Soon enough, the lesson was over. Rob didn’t think he had learned much — Mustafa was a lot of things, but a quality pedagogue was not one of them — but he was so horny he couldn’t think, so he was glad to be done anyway. His hardon throbbed in his kisbet.
“You give respect to superior man,” Mustafa said. He folded his arms over his chest. “Instructor, me. Respect, it is to dem-onstr-ate, yes?”
Rob hesitated. They were still in the middle of the field, so he thought Mustafa was asking for a tip, but Rob didn’t have any cash — or anything at all in his kisbet. He tried to explain that, but Mustafa just growled.
“Must give respect.” Mustafa took Rob hand and shoved it into Mustafa’s kisbet. His hand entered the dense thicket of sweat, oil-lubed pubic hair, and there, he felt Mustafa’s hot cock, which his fingers wrapped around.
Terrified at first as he wondered whether he was in trouble, Rob realized Mustafa wanted to get jacked off. Then Mustafa growled again and repeated himself once more. “Amer-icans must have respect!” He barked.
Rob gripped his shaft tight and gave it a stroke. It was hot and thick in his grip, and Rob watched closely to see how his stroke affected Mustafa — not at all, as it turned out. Mustafa gave no signs he noticed Rob rubbing his cock with first one, then both hands.
It was only after several minutes of standing there that Mustafa settled down with a self-satisfied smile, and Rob nervously began stroking his dick. Rob wondered if Mustafa made lots of men jack him off — he’d implied this was what all men should do to show respect to “superior” men. Maybe he made lots of both tourists and wrestlers do the same thing.
In no time Mustafa’s was rock-hard and pulsating between Rob’s fingers. He thought maybe it had gotten half-hard from the wrestling, which made Rob glad. Maybe Mustafa got hard easily. In any case, Mustafa closed his eyes as his cock throbbed in Rob’s grasp, both hands rubbing up and down that veiny dick, still entrapped in Mustafa’s oil-soaked kisbet.
Precum leaked down the shaft and added to the mix of fluids in Mustafa’s crotch. Rob wished he could kneel to get a better whiff, because he could tell he would adore that musty scent, but he thought Mustafa might object.
All at once, Mustafa reached an orgasm visible through his rippling muscles. His dick spasmed as his shoulders tensed, his toes curled, and the hair on his chest stood on end. Mustafa closed his eyes and groaned. He bit his lip.
“Yes, good respect, American cowboy,” he murmured.
All of Mustafa’s muscles tightened at once, and his balls crawled up in his sweat-slickened sac. Rob kept on stroking it even as the cum shot out and coated the inside of the kisbet, not to mention Rob’s hand and wrist.
Another vast wad of jizz spurted out. That first cumwad made it to the edge of his kisbet and the underside of Mustafa’s belly, while the rest of his load only got to the waistband. It coated every inch of Rob’s hand, and still more kept jetting out. Mustafa groaned and moaned, looking surprised like he thought this wouldn’t happen, and his knees went weak. He stood up straight again though.
When he thought he had drawn out all of that nut, Rob pulled his cum-streaked hand out and looked at it, wishing he could lick it clean. But he just stared at it as though he was disgusted and followed Mustafa into the dugout, hoping Mustafa still believed him to be an ordinary tourist.
“You come tomorrow,” Mustafa said without looking back. “I continue lesson. Keep paying.”
Rob nodded. Mustafa stopped at the entrance to the dugout. He frowned and furrowed his eyebrows, and Rob got the message. He walked away. The dugout, it seemed, was only for real Turkish oil wrestlers, not tourists.
Though he wished he could suck all the jizz off his hand, Rob was intensely attuned to the audience around, watching the other tourists take lessons from the handsome Turk. They would surely notice him licking jizz off his hands, so he simply hurried away without cleaning it off. He waited until he got back to his hotel room, and only then did Rob wash his hands.
After that, Rob was tired and thought he’d go to bed early. He had to get up in the morning tomorrow for his second lesson from Mustafa, but for now, he had nothing else to do. He wasn’t even hungry, but once he laid down in bed, he wasn’t tired anymore either. He thought having something to eat would help, so he went out of his room to find a quick bite.
“Rob! Rob!”
He heard his name being shouted from the hotel parking lot. Rob didn’t know what was happening, but he ran out the door, thinking he was in trouble.
ustafa was on the ground floor near Rob’s car and screaming Rob’s name. “Rob Win-throp! Rob Win-throp!”
“Mustafa?”
Mustafa saw him then and swayed drunkenly on his thick legs. He headed up the stairs towards Rob’s room, which was when Rob noticed the whorish woman following him. Mustafa grinned when he got to Rob’s door.
“I am very poor,” Mustafa said.
“Okay…”
The prostitute hurried in then. She looked bored as she laid down on the bed and spread her legs. Rob nervously watched.
“I do not have enough money for paying for girl sex,” Mustafa said. “But this girl will kiss.”
“Okay…” Rob still didn’t understand what Mustafa wanted.
“So you will do vagina?”
Rob blushed and looked at the whore. “Nothing personal, ma’am. You have a nice one, I’m guessing. It’s just not for me.”
“No, not you. I do not buy sex for you,” Mustafa said, scoffing at the suggestion. He took off his shirt then and shrugged. His big hairy shoulders flexed, which made Rob’s cock jump to attention in his pants.
The whore said something in Turkish. It sounded like a joke, but Mustafa barked something back at her. He was offended by it. Mustafa turned back to Rob and said, “She does not like hairy back. She says she will charge me less money if it is shaved. But I do not want to shave it. It makes itching.”
“Okay…” Rob said. “I think it’s your best quality.” He kissed Mustafa on one meaty shoulder, and the whore squealed in disgust as Rob sucked the sweat off his hairs. The acrid-sweet flavor of stale olive oil hit Rob’s tongue, reminding him of their oil-lubed practice; it seemed to have suffused into Mustafa’s skin.
“You are dis-gus-ting,” Mustafa said. But he didn’t make any effort to move away as Rob licked his back clean. Beneath the thick mat of fur, his back was strapping and firmly corded with muscle. Then Mustafa said, “Okay? We are agreement?”
Rob hesitated. He still didn’t understand what Mustafa wanted. “I’m not sure…”
Mustafa shook his head and pushed Rob to the ground at the foot of the bed. Then Mustafa spoke to the whore and kicked off his pants. He flopped his soft but thick uncut manhood between his fingers, and smiled as he approached the bed.
He fed his dick into Rob’s mouth. He tasted of old olive oil and overwhelmingly of stale sweat. He stank of body odor but it smelled like he had attempted to cover it up with a scent that was not exactly cologne-like, more as though he had bathed in incense.
Rob swallowed it the best he could. Above his head, he heard kissing and finally realized what Mustafa was doing — he didn’t couldn’t pay the prostitute for vaginal sex, so he was paying her to simply make out with him while Rob mouthed his dick. Mustafa sucked on her tits and fingered her pussy, his dick quickly growing rock-hard in his pants.
She suddenly exclaimed something in Turkish. It sounded like she was offended, and Rob looked up to see her getting off the bed. Mustafa pleaded with her in Turkish but he stood there with his dick in Rob’s mouth the whole time. He turned his body and Rob moved with him.
“Bana geri dön.”
“Sizin geri brüt ve tüylü!”
She slammed the door behind herself, and Mustafa sat on the edge of the bed, his dick still throbbing in Rob’s mouth — Rob had to twist his body to remain in position as Marcus sat down. He looked almost ready to cry, Rob thought.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” Rob asked, holding onto the thick prick in both hands.
He sighed. “She does not like my back. She say it is gross.”
Rob stood up and kissed him on the shoulder. He played with a few of the hairs in his mouth. “She doesn’t know what she’s missing.” He let his lips drop lower on Mustafa’s back, and licked all the way from his shoulder to the small of his back.
Mustafa shuddered, whether from ticklishness or disgust or both, Rob didn’t know. But Mustafa didn’t stop him as Rob bathed his hairy back in spit. His hair was matted to his muscles then, and Rob moved onto his chest.
He sucked on each hairy nipple until it was erect in his mouth, and Mustafa moaned. But Rob got the impression that this was becoming too pervy for Mustafa, too close to making out, so he quickly dropped back down and swallowed his dick again.
It seemed the nippleplay had reawakened his hardon, which throbbed with desire in Rob’s throat. Rob soaked the shaft with his spit and let it spill out of his mouth into his hairy crotch.
He said something in Turkish too fast for Rob to catch, but he got the feeling it was something like get deeper on it, bitch, because Mustafa then began pounding his dick into Rob’s throat. He chuckled when Rob gagged but he didn’t slow down.
It was a violent throating down, though nothing Rob couldn’t handle. He loved it when machos treated his head like a sex toy. He wished he could widen his throat to accommodate the man’s entire hairy cock.
In no time, he felt the man’s balls crawl up in his sac, and the familiar sour flavor of cum hit his tongue. Rob moaned as he swallowed jet after jet of creamy juice, which had a curious aftertaste that Rob couldn’t quite place — it was almost humus-like, he thought, with a delicious spiciness.
Finally it was done, but Mustafa kept his dick in Rob’s mouth as he used one brutish hand to squeeze out the last few drops of cum.
“Ah, your mouth is woman,” Mustafa said with a sigh. “Good.” He then cleaned himself up enough to leave and exited the hotel room without another word aimed at Rob. That did not surprise Rob. Mustafa was the kind of alpha who saw no need to talk to his bitch. That was why Rob liked him and women did not.
The next morning was another lesson, and Rob found that Mustafa changed his attitude towards him. He was outright kind, and he actually treated Rob like a girlfriend — when no one was watching. At the gym, Rob watched him workout and brought him water, acting like a personal trainer or assistant, though he didn’t know how to do anything of the sort.
Whenever they were alone, however, Mustafa felt up Rob’s ass and even kissed him on the cheek a few times. He grabbed Rob’s hand and shoved it into his shorts with a grin, and he often played with Rob by moving closer and closer to him as they talked, until eventually Rob was pinned against a wall and squashed by Mustafa’s massive, hairy chest.
Then if they were interrupted by someone, Mustafa would either scurry away or even slap Rob lightly, then say something insulting in Turkish. In this country, it was considered acceptable for a boss or coach to be cruel and even mildly abusive, so nobody was surprised to see Mustafa bullying Rob.
When Rob told him that his trip was almost done and that Rob would be leaving Turkey soon, Mustafa was sad. He smiled at Rob and said, in broken English, “I will be missing your mouth. It is very nice for me.”
“I’ll be missing your… Well, your everything,” Rob said. He blushed.
Mustafa stood up. “You come to field tonight. Goodbye present.” Then he walked away.
Rob was glad to see he had made a friend of sorts, then went back to his hotel to pack. He never ended up using most of what he brought because he spent all his time worshiping Mustafa’s body.
When the time came, he made his way back to the Turkish oil wrestling field. He was surprised to see a half-dozen wrestlers already there, wearing their kisbets. They weren’t greased up yet, however.
Mustafa held out the oil pourer for him, and Rob took it as he approached. Mustafa grinned and handed him a kisbet. “This for you. Since you are new, you are having to put oil on men. It is rule for rookies. I know you will like.” He gestured towards the other wrestlers, all of whom were big and hairy like Mustafa. “Then we all wrestle. You lose, you lick ass. Yes?”
Rob was already rock-hard and he couldn’t quite concentrate enough to say yes, but Mustafa seemed to understand what he wanted to say. Rob hurriedly put the kisbet on and poured some oil into his hands.
He gripped Mustafa’s hairy body and began massaging the oil in. The other wrestlers milled about, talking and leering at Rob — normally Turkish oil wrestlers greased their opponent up, that was tradition, but it seemed they also made the new guy do it when they had a rookie. So the more experienced wrestlers spoke to Rob in Turkish but in a way that suggested they were being intimidating, no doubt telling Rob how badly he would lose.
Of course Rob was desperate to lose. He had no real chance of winning anyway, but he certainly didn’t want to. slurping all these Turkish studs’s asses? He couldn’t think of a better way to end his trip.
When Mustafa was done, Rob moved onto rubbing oil into the skin of the the next man, Kaan Gözübüyük. He was taller and leaner than Mustafa, but he was just as hairy. The thick black curly hairs extended up from his ass and down from his shoulder, stretching to almost, but not quite, meet in the middle. He had a fat face — he wasn’t fat, but he had a big face with a wide nose, wide mouth, wide chin, his face just went on forever.
The man after him was burly and paunchy, Cenk Dal, who was maybe the strongest there. He had biceps the size of Rob’s torso and a thick scar that ran over his back. The scar was the only part of his back that had no hair growing on it, and indeed, his whole body was just as hairy from head to toe. Rob had to fight back the urge to lick the scar from ass to shoulder.
Then came a young man, Ömer Pamuk, easily the youngest of the seven Turks there. He was handsome and charming, and he seemed distinctly uncomfortable at being touched by a man. He also appeared to shave his chest and back, but his lower neck was untrimmed, so the hair extended well into his back.
Then the wrestling began. This was an informal match, so they simply paired off and began. Mustafa acted as a coach, yelling encouragement (or so Rob assumed) in Turkish. The big men Cenk and Kaan fought; that left the young man, Ömer, who was about Rob’s size, so they were a good match.
Rob was knocked flat-footed when Ömer came at him, and he barely managed to stay upright. He couldn’t quite grip Ömer’s body, which was lean and toned, with not an ounce of fat anywhere. He had no grip due to the greasy olive oil.
Ömer’s hands were in Rob’s pants and holding onto the kisbet, but Rob managed to separate from him. He plunged his own hands down Ömer’s pants and grunted in shock when his hand gripped Ömer’s long, thick cock. Ömer didn’t seem to notice, as his hands clutched Rob’s asscheeks.
Then it was all over. As suddenly as it began, Ömer had Rob pinned. He couldn’t move a muscle, all he could do was submit until Mustafa declared the match over.
That was it. The three winners (Ömer, Kaan and Cenk) congratulated each other as they all hurried to the stone dugout on the edge of the field. They were chanting at Rob, no doubt telling him to perform his loserly duty.
Mustafa spoke in clipped English. “They think you bet ass-slurping. I tell them you thought American cowboy can win any sport.”
As soon as they got into the dugout, they dropped their kisbets to reveal bare asses and densely hairy holes. They catcalled back to Rob, who pretended to be embarrassed and disgusted. He heard a few words that sounded like “American”, so he thought these men liked the idea of humiliating an American. He even heard something that sounded like yank, though he had no idea if that was really what they said.
He had lost to Ömer, so Rob kneeled behind him first. Ömer had the smoothest ass as well, so it would make sense if he were straight to start there. He made a loud sound that he hoped came across as disgusted, but luckily they were all facing away — they seemed to think it was too disgusting to watch.
As soon as his tongue hit Ömer’s asshole, Ömer jerked and exclaimed something that made the others laugh. Rob jabbed his tongue in and felt around. The olive oil was fruity and sweet, mixed with the acrid and bitter flavor of Ömer’s ass-sweat.
His hands reached around to Ömer’s dick, which was already rock-hard. It throbbed between his fingers and instantly leaked precum. Ömer must have really been enjoying the rimjob, Rob thought.
The feeling of submission to alpha male domination flooded Rob — this was precisely what he had been hoping to find in Turkey. He felt like his tongue was plunging straight into a grimy whirlpool of manhood, and he could feel its juices dripping down his throat.
Ömer jumped around without warning and slammed his dick into Rob’s mouth. He only barely made it before shooting a puddle of cum down Rob’s gullet. He laughed as he did so, embarrassed at having cum so soon.
The brothers were next. They were moderately hairy and had nice bubble-butts, and Rob worshiped all four orbs with his tongue before plunging inside. He tasted first one grimy hole, then the other — they were lined up ass-to-ass so Rob could go quickly from one to the other, while he used each hand on one cock.
He was so intent on licking them both that he almost didn’t notice Mustafa getting behind him. He said something in Turkish that Rob suspected meant I’m gonna make you my prison-punk, or something along those lines, and it made the other men say something surprised. They all had a brief conversation about it, but Mustafa didn’t slow down at all.
His dick pushed into Rob’s ass, and he relentlessly kept going — the oil was as effective a lube as he was willing to use, it seemed, and Rob was glad to have a little pain. He always enjoyed that.
The brothers turned around at once and both pushed their dicks into Rob’s mouth. It didn’t seem anyone saw it as weird for them to be jousting like that.
They both came nearly at once, shooting a thick and creamy loud that Rob held in his mouth for a minute. He savored the flavor and the hotness, then let it slide down his throat.
Kaan and Cenk were next, the two biggest guys here, both covered in fur. Rob reached up and caressed their hairy backs as he made love to each asshole in turn with his tongue. They both grunted like pigs every time Rob’s tongue reached their spongy prostates. Meanwhile Mustafa plowed into Rob’s relentlessly, uncaring of how it made Rob feel. Rob exclaimed in pain but it just made Mustafa laugh and gyrate harder with each passing thrust.
That continued for what felt like hours, Rob ripped open from behind by Mustafa’s massive cock, his tongue darting between the sweathair-choked asses of Kaan and Cenk. The handsome young one Ömer backed off when it got serious like that, but he had already cum, so Rob did not miss him. He slathered the other two’s ass cracks in spit, and his hands snaked around their bodies to the body hair jungles of their crotches. He stroked their hardons the best he could with Mustafa ramming him up behind like an elephant.
“Oh god, stick it in me, Mustafa!” Rob cried out. Mustafa seemed too engrossed in his own pleasures to pay attention to Rob’s words., or maybe he had forgotten English, but in any case, he gave no sign of hearing Rob’s demand. He kept at it regardless, and each thrust of his dick caused a ripple of his muscles and a jolt of both pleasure and pain to strike up Rob’s sppine.
“I am to cum,” Kaan murmured, barely audible over Mustafa’s bestial panting. He took Rob’s head out of Cenk’s ass so he could turn around plow his cock down Rob’s throat. Rob gagged uncontrollably, but that only made the others cheer and smack his tender ass. Cenk stroked himself off and reached orgasm along with Kaan.
They both filled up Rob’s mouth with their creamy seed, and sneered down at him with disgust in their eyes. Rob swallowed every drop and showed them his empty mouth. Most of it spilled out over onto his face. He frotted both dicks together as they limpened and he slurped on the cocktips that whole time, his body rocking back and forth with the power of Mustafa’s rams.
At last Mustafa picked Rob up and dragged his body up and down on his shaft, so Mustafa stood still and Rob was forced up and down on his shaft like some cheap fleshlight. Mustafa’s shaft throbbed in his intestines until he finally reached orgasm.
Hot cum sprayed to every inch of Rob’s body, coating his intestines. Some of it dripped down Rob’s thigh, making a hot, stinking mess on the floor. Jet after jet of it filled him up, more than Mustafa had shot up til now. Rob felt it seeping into his flesh, and he moaned out loud, as he finally shot his own wad onto the floor as well.
A great surge of relief wracked his body when Mustafa removed his cock at last. Mustafa snorted. Rob moaned. Rob lay sprawled-out on the floor. When he moved his body, it reawakened his climax and sent a twinge of both pain and ecstasy through his body once more. His ass ached. He cried out, and he lay still there, exulting in the aftershocks of his orgasm.
The men quickly walked away, leaving Rob there on the floor in a puddle of fluids and bliss. Mustafa was last, and as he left, he said, “You hire again. More lessons. Much to learn.”